The Slaying of the Shrew

Free The Slaying of the Shrew by Simon Hawke

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Authors: Simon Hawke
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective
Kemp, of your snide barbs and venomous aspersions," Smythe said. "That you are more talented than I is something I shall not dispute. The least talented member of this company is a better player by far than I, much as it saddens me to say so. I am quite aware of my shortcomings. Be that as it may, I carry my weight and I work as hard as you do, if not harder, and I challenge any member of this company to say that I do not. I am not, by nature, hot-tempered, but neither will I suffer myself to be abused. The next time you provoke me, I shall put you through a window, and the landing may not be as soft. Find another target for your caustic wit, for I have had enough of it."
    There was complete silence as everyone waited for Kemp to respond. It was a side of Smythe they had not seen before, and it took them all aback a bit.
    "Well…" began Kemp, awkwardly, " 'twas never my intention to do you any injury. I never meant to give any offense, you know. ‘Tis just my way… to chide people a bit, good-natured like. I never knew that it discomfitted you. You should have said something." He tried to meet Smythe's gaze, but his eyes kept sliding away. He looked, Smythe thought, rather like a guilty dog that had been caught stealing a meat pie.
    "I have said something, just now," Smythe replied. "And I trust that there shall be no need for me to say it once again."
    Later, when they were brought to their quarters in the servants' wing on the ground floor of the mansion, Shakespeare and Smythe found themselves sharing once again a small room, little larger than a closet. There were always some spare rooms in the servants' quarters of the larger homes for visitors who travelled with liveried footmen or tirewomen or the like. The accomodations were hardly luxurious, but they were still a sight more comfortable than what most working-class people in the city could afford, many of whom had to crowd together into tiny rented rooms and share sleeping space upon the floors.
    "I was wondering when you would finally have your fill of Kemp and clout him one," said Shakespeare.
    "Now I never clouted him," protested Smythe.
    "No, what you did was much worse. Or much better, depending on one's point of view. You humiliated him. Plucked him up as if he were a daisy and threw him straight into a pile of shit. 'Twas quite lovely, really. Wish I had thought of it myself, save that I would have lacked the strength to hoist him up like that."
    Smythe grimaced. "I probably should not have done it. But I was sick of him constantly picking away at me."
    "Well, rest assured, he shall not do it anymore, but you have made an enemy for life."
    "You think?"
    "Oh, aye. You can best a man and he will like as not forgive you for it, but humiliate him and 'tis a sure thing that he will hate you til he dies. And I suppose that one can say the same for women, when it comes to that. Man or woman, either way, hate shall not discriminate."
    Smythe nodded. "I cannot disagree. But I do believe that Kemp had hated me right from the very start, or at the very least, disliked me a great deal. I could not have made things that much worse. I had held my temper with him in the past, but that only seemed to encourage him. At least now, I might save myself having to listen to his noise. Nevertheless… perhaps I should not have done it."
    "No, 'twas the right thing you did," said Shakespeare, thoughtfully, as he stretched out on the straw mattress and put his arms up behind his head. "You are a strapping lad, Tuck, powerfully strong, but that strength shall only be respected when there is a threat that it might be employed. If a man like Kemp perceives that he can bait you with impunity, why then you might be twice his size and it shall not discourage him. He was always pricking you with his nasty wit, we could all see that. If you had not thrown him in the shitpile, or else clouted him a good one, 'twould have only gotten worse."
    "I think so, too," said Smythe. "Though, in truth,"

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