“For good, I hope,” said Dickens. “That is, for good or ill, I have returned to England, but ‘tis my hope that ‘twill be for good.”
Bailey frowned and grunted, then turned his back upon them and resumed his work.
“Come on, Ben,” Smythe said, taking off his apron and hanging it up on its hook, anxious to be off before Dickens irritated Bailey any further. “Good night to you, Liam. I shall return upon the morn.”
“Suit yourself,” said the smith, without turning around.
Dickens chuckled as they left. “Sour as a green apple, is he not?” he said as they stepped out into the street.
“ ‘Tis just his way,” said Smythe. “Liam Bailey is a good man. He is honest and good-hearted.”
“I know he is,” Dickens replied. “My old master would never have had aught to do with him else. But unlike a green apple, Bailey sours even further as he ripens. He does not approve of me, I fear.”
“He seems like that to everyone,” Smythe replied. “Besides, methinks he does not truly know you.”
“Nay, he knows all he needs to know, or else thinks he needs to know,” said Dickens, good-naturedly, “and that is that I left a good apprenticeship to become a mercenary soldier. And for that sort of ‘damned foolishness,’ as he called it himself, I do not think that Liam Bailey could ever forgive anyone, least of all an ungrateful apprentice who left the service of a friend of his.”
“I have never heard him speak of your Master Moryson,” said Smythe. “What became of him? Does he still pursue his craft?”
“He died,” said Dickens. The joviality left his tone. “He fell to the sweating sickness the year after I left.”
“I am sorry,” Smythe said.
“So am I,” said Dickens. “He was a good man, and a fair master. He taught me much. Bailey was right, you know. ‘Twas ungrateful of me to have left him.”
“You did what you felt you had to do,” said Smythe. “You wanted adventure, and you knew that you would never find it working in an armorer’s shop.”
“True,” Dickens agreed. “I did want adventure. Very much so. And I found it. Very much so. And now, looking back on it all, I am sorry that I ever left.”
“Was it so bad then?”
Dickens shrugged. “‘Twas all very different from what I had expected. But then, enough of that. I should not wish to have you thinking ‘tis my wont to wallow in melancholy. As I have said before, had I known then what I now know, methinks I would have made some different choices, but there is little to be served in regreting what is past.”
“Indeed,” said Smythe. “There is much to be said for looking forward.”
Dickens smiled. “And to what do you look forward, Tuck?”
“At the moment, I merely look forward to the playhouses opening once more,” said Smythe. “S’trewth, we all desperately need the money. And not all the players are able to find other work, as I have been fortunate to do.”
“I doubt that fortune has very much to do with it,” said Dickens. “I saw what you were doing there. You seem to know what you are about.”
“My Uncle Thomas was a smith. He taught me,” Smythe replied.
“I would say he taught you well,” said Dickens. “And I daresay he was more than just a smith. You were not forging horseshoes back there. You were working on a blade.”
“ ‘Twas his true passion,” Smythe replied, adding with pride, “and in the craftsmanship of blades, I never saw him have an equal. Truly, I would put his blades against the finest of Toledo.”
“Indeed? Thomas Smythe, you say? Mind you, now, I intend no offense toward you nor toward your uncle, but if his blades are truly of such superior craftsmanship, how is it I have never head of him?”
Smythe saw that the question came from curiosity, rather than from skepticism of his claim, so he did not take umbrage. “Our village was a small one,” he replied, “and no main thoroughfare ran through it. ‘Twas tucked away upon the boundary of a wood, and we received few visitors. When the players came through on tour once in my youth, ‘twas a momentous event. The arrival of each itinerant peddlar was regarded as a great occasion.” He smiled. “I recall how I used to dream of going to the city to become a player. Naught else did I desire. But not Uncle Thomas. He liked his quiet life. He is a simple man who keeps his own company and keeps it well. He works for the love of the craft, and the pride he takes in it, not for wealth nor fame. And if he had those things, why, I do not believe that he would quite know what to do with them.”
“Well, I should much like to see one of your uncle’s blades someday,” said Dickens.
“You might be disappointed,” Smythe replied. “They are rather plain and ordinary looking, not at all showy in appearance… but then again, as a soldier and one who was an armorer’s apprentice… Well, here then…” He unsheathed his simple knife. “He made this for me years ago, when I was just a boy. It bears his maker’s mark.”
