“Well, smite me!” said Jack, with surprise. “I must say, you certainly seem changed, Ben. That does not at all sound like the Ben Dickens I once knew.”
“Perhaps he has changed, then. Perhaps he came back from the wars because he lost his nerve,” said Bruce, contemptuously.
“Here now…” Fleming began, but Dickens put his hand out, forestalling his comment. He fixed Bruce with a steady gaze, transfixing him with an unblinking stare the surly apprentice gamely tried to meet, but after a moment, Bruce found himself forced to blink and look away.
“I do not need some lickspittle street brawler to tell me I have lost my nerve,” said Dickens, softy. “When you have seen men dying on the field of battle by the thousands, when the stench of bodies swelling and bursting in the sun assails your senses til your head reels and your eyes burn, when the buzzing of the flies over the carrion fills your ears, so that you go on hearing it for days and days after the battle has been fought until you think you will go mad with it, when you have seen women and old men searching for their fallen sons amongst the corpses and when you have heard their wails of grief on finding the mutilated objects of their quest, why, then you can come and speak to me about my nerve. Until then, apprentice, best stick with your clubs and daggers and your cocksure roaring boys, posturing and puffing out their chests, and speak not to me of things that you cannot even begin to understand.”
Bruce rose to his feet with a snarl, reaching for his dagger, but before he could unsheath it, Jack grabbed his hand in both of his, preventing him from drawing it.
As Smythe and several of the others leapt to their feet, Bruce sputtered with rage as he struggled angrily against his friend. “Let me go, damn you!”
“Don’t be a fool,” Jack replied in a steady voice, maintaining his grip and strengthening it by pressing his body up close against his friend, immobilizing his arms between them. “You only have your dirk, whilst he wears a rapier. Aside from that, in the event you have not noticed, we are quite outnumbered here.”
“That does it!” Stackpole said, hefting the adze handle once again as he came out from behind the bar. “Out with you! And don’t be coming back!”
“You’ve not seen the last of us, old man,” said Bruce, sneering at him.
“Old man, is it? I’ll bloody well show ye who’s old, ye miserable guttersnipe!” He swung the adze handle and it made a sound like the Grim Reaper’s scythe cutting through the air. It narrowly missed Bruce as he ducked at the last instant, barely avoiding having his skull split. Before Stackpole could swing again, Jack shoved Bruce toward the door and quickly followed.
“You shouldn’t turn your back on your old friends, Ben!” he called back over his shoulder. “You were one of us, one of the Steady Boys, and we ain’t never let you down!”
“You just did, Jack,” Dickens replied, with a wry grimace. “You just did.”
“Out, I said!” roared Stackpole, brandishing his adze handle.
Bruce held up two fingers and went out the door, with Jack on his heels.
“And good bloody riddance!” Fleming said, emphatically.
“And those were truly friends of yours?” asked Burbage, with distaste.
“Aye, at one time,” said Dickens. “And great good friends they were. Or at least, so I believed back then.”
“And now at last you see them for what they truly were,” said Fleming, with a righteous air.
Dickens smiled. “Perhaps,” he said. “But if so, John, then I see myself for what I truly was, as well.”
“Well, now, methinks you judge yourself a bit too harshly, lad,” Fleming said, patting him on the shoulder. “I never knew you to be a coarse, ill-mannered ruffian, like that lot. And even if you once did have some common ground with the likes of those two scalawags, why, you have been out to see the world and you know much better now.”
“Do I?” Dicken said. “I wonder. ‘Tis indeed a thing devoutly to be wished, however things may stand. A man can only hope to grow wiser as the years accumulate, though I fear not all men do.”
“And in that observation, there is wisdom, Ben,” said Burbage, with a smile, “so ‘twould seem that you are on the right path after all.”
“I wish I felt as certain of that as you, old friend,” Dickens replied.
Burbage frowned. “What do mean by that? You mean to say that you have doubts about the course you chose?”
“I have been giving it much thought of late,” said Dickens, nodding. “And especially so on the voyage home with Master Leonardo. He has made his fortune on his voyages and now seeks to settle down to a gentleman’s life. He desires to use some of his profits to invest in business. ‘Tis possible that his interests and mine may coincide in some degree.”
“So then you plan to give up soldiering and remain in London?” Fleming said.
“Well, I have, as yet, made no firm decisions,” Dickens answered, “but I have found that the adventuring life has lost much of its allure for me. It feels good to be back home in England once again, amongst old friends. And new ones, of course.” He smiled at Smythe and Shakespeare and the other players who had joined the company since he left.
“ ‘Tis good to have you back, as well, Ben,” Burbage said. “And if, by chance, your plans with Master Leonardo do not come to fruition, although we wish you all success, I am sure that we could find a place for you with the Queen’s Men once again, at the very least until you should decide upon which path your future lies.”
“I’ll drink to that!” said Speed.
“So shall we all!” said Fleming. “Stackpole, my good man, more ale, if you please!”
Later that night, as he lay in bed upstairs, Smythe thought about the events of the evening, feeling an unsettling disquiet that he could not account for. It was not simply that Bruce McEnery had tried to draw steel in the Toad and Badger. At least, Smythe did not think that was the reason for his apprehension. Although that sort of thing did not usually happen downstairs in the tavern, it was not entirely unheard of, and it was not the sort of thing that made him feel particularly squeamish. He had seen tavern brawls before and on occasion been involved in them. On at least one of those occasions, that memorable day when he and Will had first arrived in London and met Chris Marlowe and Sir William Worley at the Swan and Maiden, both blades and blood were drawn. On that day too, as he recalled, a street riot had preceeded the festivities, setting the tone for the violence to follow. Mob violence always seemed to get people’s blood up, even if they were not themselves involved. But there was something else that gnawed at him, maybe something unrelated that he could not quite put his finger on. Something about those two apprentices, perhaps…
“Well, all right, what is it?” Shakespeare said, putting down his quill pen and turning round from his work desk to face him.
“What? I said nothing,” Smythe replied, glancing at him with surprise.
The gentle glow of candlelight illuminated Shakespeare’s face as he sighed and rolled his eyes. “I know,” he said. “You said nothing, but your restlessness spoke volumes. You grunted and you sighed, time and time again, and as if that were not enough, you keep squirming on that mattress like a nervous virgin on her wedding night. By Heaven, for all the noise you’re making, ‘tis like trying to work with a bull grazing in one’s bedroom!”
“I am sorry, Will. I did not mean to disturb you at your work.”