Free The Merchant of Vengeance by Simon Hawke
Authors: Simon Hawke
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?"
Then Shakespeare yelped as Smythe turned him upside down and shifted his grip so that one hand grasped each of his ankles. "Now," Smythe said, "what shall I do, I wonder? Shake you or make a wish?"
"Tuck! Damn you for a venomous double-dealing rogue, let me down at once, I say!"
"Hmmm, now what was it you said just now?" asked Smythe, holding him aloft. "There is no flask, eh? Was that what you said?" He started shaking the helpless poet up and down.
"Tuuuuuuuuuuck!"
Something fell out of Shakespeare's doublet and struck the damp ground with a soft thud.
'Well, now!" said Smythe, "what have we here?" He turned slightly so that Shakespeare, still held upside down, could see what was lying on the ground.
"Is that a flask, or do mine eyes deceive me?"
"Ohhhhh, I am going to beat you with a stick!" said Shakespeare through gritted teeth as he vainly tried to strike out behind him. Smythe merely held him out farther away, at arm's length.
"Aye, I do believe that is a flask I see down there at my feet. I do not suppose 'twould happen to be yours, by any chance?"
"God's body! You are as strong as a bloody ox!" said Shakespeare. "Let me down, I pray you, the blood is rushing to my head."
Smythe released him. "Very well, then. Down you go."
It was not very far to fall, no more than a foot or so, but from the way Shakespeare cried out, it might have been a precipice that he was dropped from. He fell to the ground in a heap, groaning.
"Now then," Smythe said, looking down at him with his hands upon his hips, "what was it you were saying about not taking seriously anyone who drank?"
"You know very well what I meant, you great, infernal oaf," grumbled Shakespeare, getting up and dusting himself off. "There is a deal of difference between a man who drinks in moderation and a man who drinks to excess."
"Moderation?" Smythe replied. "Compared to you, half the drunks in London drink. in moderation, and the other half are bloody well abstemious!"
"Gentlemen," a deep voice said from behind them, "if the two of you are intent upon a brawl, might I suggest a tavern, or perhaps some wooded place where you
"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?"
Then Shakespeare yelped as Smythe turned him upside down and shifted his grip so that one hand grasped each of his ankles. "Now," Smythe said, "what shall I do, I wonder? Shake you or make a wish?"
"Tuck! Damn you for a venomous double-dealing rogue, let me down at once, I say!"
"Hmmm, now what was it you said just now?" asked Smythe, holding him aloft. "There is no flask, eh? Was that what you said?" He started shaking the helpless poet up and down.
"Tuuuuuuuuuuck!"
Something fell out of Shakespeare's doublet and struck the damp ground with a soft thud.
'Well, now!" said Smythe, "what have we here?" He turned slightly so that Shakespeare, still held upside down, could see what was lying on the ground.
"Is that a flask, or do mine eyes deceive me?"
"Ohhhhh, I am going to beat you with a stick!" said Shakespeare through gritted teeth as he vainly tried to strike out behind him. Smythe merely held him out farther away, at arm's length.
"Aye, I do believe that is a flask I see down there at my feet. I do not suppose 'twould happen to be yours, by any chance?"
"God's body! You are as strong as a bloody ox!" said Shakespeare. "Let me down, I pray you, the blood is rushing to my head."
Smythe released him. "Very well, then. Down you go."
It was not very far to fall, no more than a foot or so, but from the way Shakespeare cried out, it might have been a precipice that he was dropped from. He fell to the ground in a heap, groaning.
"Now then," Smythe said, looking down at him with his hands upon his hips, "what was it you were saying about not taking seriously anyone who drank?"
"You know very well what I meant, you great, infernal oaf," grumbled Shakespeare, getting up and dusting himself off. "There is a deal of difference between a man who drinks in moderation and a man who drinks to excess."
"Moderation?" Smythe replied. "Compared to you, half the drunks in London drink. in moderation, and the other half are bloody well abstemious!"
"Gentlemen," a deep voice said from behind them, "if the two of you are intent upon a brawl, might I suggest a tavern, or perhaps some wooded place where you