“Aye, not for me, lad,” he said, when Smythe brought up the question as they worked together at the forge. “Never have I been to a gaming house, nor a bawdy house, neither. I see no purpose in such things. I work hard for my money, so why risk it in a foolish game of chance? Especially when chance plays so little part in it these days. Those gaming houses are all full o’ cheats an’ tricksters just waitin’ for a nice, fat cony to come along that they can skin. An’ as for bawdy houses, even if you do not come away poxed or lice-ridden from some doxy, or knocked over the head and get all your money taken away for bein’ a damn fool, a moment’s pleasure is scarce worth hours’ work, if you ask me. An’ for that matter, why sup from an unwashed trencher that’s already fed dozens more afore you?”
“And what of other entertainments?” Smythe had asked him with a smile, as he worked the bellows.
“Such as what? Baiting bears or bulls or apes, you mean, as they do down at the Paris Garden? Now what offense did a bear or bull or ape ever do to me that I should revel in the torture of the poor, dumb beast? Or go to a good execution, perhaps, eh? Now there’s a splendid evening’s entertainment! Watching some poor and misbegotten wretch have his guts pulled out, or else witness a hanging, or perhaps a whipping? One could always go and abuse some poor sod stuck in the pillory, that might be a pleasant way to pass the afternoon.” He snorted with derision. “Such diversions hold little interest for me.”
“There are other, less violent ways to entertain oneself, you know,” said Smythe. “Have you never gone to Paul’s and bought a book? Or just taken in the sights?”
“Aye, once.”
“Only once? Twasn’t to your liking, then?”
Liam Bailey’s jaw muscles tightened. “A church is a place for prayin’, not for sellin’ things. If the Lord Jesus were to come back and pay a visit to St. Paul’s, why he would drive the blackguards out as he drove out the moneylenders from the temple! An’ he would call back the crowd that wished to stone the harlot and have them bury all the bastards in a rain of rocks. ‘Tis a disgrace what they have brought that goodly cathedral to, if you ask me. ‘Tis supposed to be the house of God, and yet, all manner of sin is found transacted there each day.”
“Have a care, Liam. You are sounding just a wee bit like a Papist,” Smythe said, with a chuckle.
“It need not take a Roman Pope to see that churches in this land have fallen to a sorry state,” the grizzled old smith replied. “Far be it from me to claim that I could know God or understand His will, but I cannot believe that havin’ whores sellin’ themselves in church was what He had in mind.”
“Well, I suppose Paul’s Walk is out, then. What about music and dancing, then? Do you enjoy that?”
“I am Irish. Of course I enjoy music. And I might indulge in a jig or two every now and then, but I am not much of a dancer. Too big and clumsy. And too old.”
“Oh, I do not believe that for a moment,” said Smythe, with a chuckle. “I would bet that you could dance long after most men half your age have dropped from weariness. And singing. I have heard you sing a time or two, whilst you are working. You have a fine, baritone voice.”
“If a man likes his work, why should he not sing? Good, hard work is its own song, if you ask me. But why all this sudden interest in my taste in entertainments?”
“I was simply curious, is all,” said Smythe, with a shrug. “You love what you do. It makes you want to sing. Well, that is how working at the Theatre often makes me feel, although I do not have a voice as fine as yours. When I sing, I fear it sounds like geese farting in the wind. But I do it, so long as it does not greatly grate upon the ears of those nearby.”
“Aye, well, if it makes you happy, then that is all that tr
uly matters, I suppose,” said Bailey, “though for the life of me, I cannot see why a fine, strong lad like you would wish to waste his time with a mincing flock of poppinjays. Here, hand me those tongs…”
The quenching fire hissed and steamed as the red-hot iron was plunged into it.
“Now you take something like a piece of steel,” said Bailey. “It has substance, value, worth. ‘Tis useful, and when made right, by a good craftsman, it can be a thing of beauty. You have that gift, boy. This knife you made for me…”
He took the blade out of its sheath and gazed at it fondly. “A simple thing, really, no embellishments, no fancy decorations or engraving, no wire wrapping, just simple staghorn for the hilt… ‘Tis a good, honest, working man’s knife. And yet, you have made of it a thing of beauty.”
“I merely made it as my Uncle Thomas taught me,” Smythe said, though he was pleased by the compliment, coming from a man who knew his steel.
“Do you know that I have had nearly a dozen requests already for ones just like it?” Bailey asked.
“You have?” Smythe said, with surprise. “From who?”
“From my customers,” said Bailey. “Each one of them a craftsman in his own right, mind, men who know good work when they see it. And even though you are still unseasoned, yours is more than merely good. ‘Tis fine work, indeed. Any man who knows can see that.”
“Well…” Smythe said, somewhat sheepisly. He was a bit taken aback. “I do not quite know what to say to that.”
“Say that you shall make them, and I shall take the orders,” Bailey said. He drew the quenched steel from the fire. “You can start with this. I am not saying you should leave your mincing players,” he added, wryly, “but as you know only too well, the playhouses are still closed, and I know you need the money.”
“There is word that they may reopen again soon,” said Smythe.
“And then again, they may not. If so, then you will have some honest work that honest men may then appreciate. And if the playhouses do reopen, why then, you may work here on the knives whenever you can find the time. My customers shall wait. They know that good work is worth waiting for.”
Smythe looked at him. “I see what you are trying to do, Liam.”
The smith looked back at him directly. “I am trying to please my customers and make us both some money in the bargain. If you prefer to act out silly daydreams on the stage, that is your business and none o’ my concern. To each his own, I say. But I can offer you no work as a player, Tuck. This is the work I have. You either want it, or you do not. The choice is yours.”
“I do need the work, Liam,” Smythe replied. “And I did not intend to sound ungrateful. Forgive me. You have been naught but kind to me and ‘tis not my place to go putting on airs.”