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“A carriage,” Tuck said to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. “He asks me for a loan, takes all my money, and then drives off in a bloody carriage!”
He glanced down at the letter in his hand. He recognized his uncle’s handwriting. For all that Thomas Smythe was just a simple craftsman, his chancery hand was every bit as fine as that of any London scribe. He eagerly opened the letter and read:
My dear boy,
I trust this letter finds you well. Your father has promised that he would deliver this to you at the Burbage Theatre, where I told him you could most easily be found. Doubtless, you shall be surprised to see him, and some word of explanation is most likely in order, since I do not expect him to enlighten you, or else if he does, at least to some extent, explain himself, then I would wish for you to hear my side of it.
In short, I have given him the boot. For all that he is still my brother, I could not bear his i
nsufferable presence in my house one moment longer. I never did begrudge him his inheritance, and although he never once saw fit to share any of it with me, as I continue to believe our father wished for him to do, I bore him no ill will. When, through his own profligate intemperance and uncontrolled ambition, he had squandered nearly the last penny he had left, I took him in, for he was still my family, and I believed that perhaps his fall might have taught him some humility. His wife ran off with some itinerant peddlar, as I understand it, though that is Symington’s version of events and, as such, the details are suspect. Still, there is no question that the woman left him when the money was at last all gone, so mayhap there is truth to how he says it came to pass. Either way, it makes little difference. He had no one to take care of him, and no means to do it on his own, and so, somewhat reluctantly, I must confess, I took him in.
I had forgotten just how difficult a person he could be, and how trying was his temper, and how utterly selfish and ungrateful he was, and always had been. I shall not recite the entire litany of offenses that he gave to me, nor regale you at length with how, in his foolish thoughtlessness, he had nearly managed to burn down my home. I gave him money every time he asked, and for all I gave him, he ever asked for more. Much of it, I know, he spent on drink. As for the rest, he squandered it in gambling or else in madcap schemes with the intent of somehow making back his fortune. Do not, I pray you, give him any money, for he shall only waste it in some foolishness. I have given him enough to see him through upon his journey and to find some lodgings once he reaches London, as well as to sustain him for some time, until he can find a job and make some sort of life for himself. What he does after that is none of my concern, for after all of the indignities and hardships he has visited upon me, I have washed my hands of him.
Do not, I pray, allow him to presume upon your sympathies. You have a good heart and a land nature, neither of which you have inherited from him, to be sure, and I do fear that he may try to take advantage of you. Thus, I caution you to keep a firm hand on your purse strings and exercise sound judgement in whatever he may ask of you. Remember that he had sent you away because he found a son to be too much of a burden. Be wary now should the father prove too much of a burden to the son. Write soon and God keep you.
Your loving uncle,
Thomas Smythe
Tuck shook his head and gave a small snort as he put away the letter. “Sound advice, Uncle, if a bit too late. Small wonder he did not give me the letter first.” He sighed. “Well, let us hope that Will has some money left from those sonnets he had sold, else I shall not be eating supper on this night.”
He wrapped his cloak around him and set off back toward the Toad and Badger on foot, thinking all the while about his father traveling in a carriage that he was going to pay for with money he had borrowed from his son. Not that Tuck truly expected the “loan” to be repaid. He knew his father far too well for that. Even his own brother, who was as patient as his father was arrogant, had finally reached the limit of that patience. And now the problem would be his. Well, thought Smythe, he would take his uncle’s advice to heart. He would not allow his father to presume upon their relationship only to take advantage of him. He would give him what help he could, within reason, but he would not suffer himself to be cozened. He was no longer quite so naive.
It was already dark as he drew near the Toad and Badger and due to the lateness of the hour, the streets were for the most part deserted. On occasion, a coach or carriage would drive past, clattering along the cobblestones, but there were few pedestrians. Smythe was still preoccupied with his brief reunion with his father as he walked, and the conflicting emotions the meeting had brought up, and so he failed to note that anything was amiss until he heard the sound of running footsteps very close behind him.
As he turned, the club that would have struck him squarely on top of the head came down instead on his shoulder with a numbing impact. He cried out with pain and brought his arm up to ward off the next blow that came whistling toward him. The shock of it nearly broke his arm. The next blow came so quickly that he couldn’t block it. The club struck him in the side of the head, grazing his skull, and he saw stars.
There were several of them, he could not tell how many, and they were all around him, raining down blows. He couldn’t even draw his knife. He was too busy trying to ward off the blows that just kept coming. In desperation, he put his arms up over his head to protect himself, then lowered his head and charged, bellowing like a bull. He collided with one of his attackers and threw his arms around him, driving him backward until they struck a wall and the impact drove all the wind out of his assailant.
There were more of them, however, and they did not let up. Smythe felt blood running down the side of his head and he could not see straight. With an abrupt finality, it suddenly struck him that he might be killed. Somehow, he found the strength to fight back, absorbing the punishing blows as he wrested a club away from one of his assailants and started dealing out some of his own. Then he heard somebody yelling and a moment later realized that someone else had joined the battle on his side.
His vision swimming, he swung the captured club around in all directions, flailing away madly, and moments later, the attackers were on the run. He sank down to his knees in the street, unable to stand any longer. Everything was spinning.
“Tuck! Tuck!”
He thought he recognized the voice, but he could not be certain. There seemed to be a ringing in his ears. “Ben?”
“Hang on, Tuck. Hang on. I must try to stop the bleeding.”
“Are they gone?”
“Aye, they ran off, the bloody bastards. But not before I drew some blood. I ran one through and slashed another pretty badly. After that, the rest all ran.”
“Well done. I am much obliged to you.”
“Do not try to speak, Tuck. Save your strength. I will-”
But that was the last thing Smythe heard as he lost consciousness and collapsed to the street.
He awoke to the worst headache he had ever experienced. He groaned, involuntarily, and brought his hands up to his head, only to find that it was bandaged.
“Lie still,” Will said, bending over him, his face full of concern. “Do not try to sit up.”
“Where am I?”
“You are back at home, in our room at the Toad and Badger,” Shakespeare replied. “Ben brought you here. Do you recall what happened?”
Smythe touched his bandaged head gingerly. “I was attacked…”
