The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  It had been desperation that made him seek out Whitman. The famous actor, though known to be moody and drink in excess, had sudden bouts of unexplained generosity. After one of Whitman’s productions, Shakespeare approached him, fully expecting to be rebuffed. Though there was no room in the fellowship for another itinerate player, Whitman agreed to read Shakespeare’s play.

  And read it Harry did, grunting, muttering to himself as he sorted through the uneven scraps of paper on which the lines were written. Shakespeare couldn’t afford anything as luxurious as unused paper. When Harry had finished, he calmly handed Shakespeare back his play and asked what he knew about horses. That was it. Not a single comment on his work, just what did he know about horses.

  Shakespeare told Harry that he knew much about grooming—a bald lie—and was hired on the spot. His first real work in London—tending the horses of the gentleman playgoers. He’d been so grateful to Harry for the opportunity.

  A few days later Shakespeare burned the book. It remained forgotten until six months later. Harry had been voicing one of his many soliloquies on stage when he started to improvise using lines from Shakespeare’s ill-fated play. The rogue had committed the book to memory as he read it! Afterward, in a tavern, of course, Harry begrudgingly gave Shakespeare a word or two of credit for the well-received lines he’d orated.

  Shakespeare looked back at Harry’s grave. Only Whitman’s widow and her parish priest remained, the other members of the fellowship having already begun the walk back to London. Cuthbert followed Shakespeare’s eyes and said,

  “Poor Margaret. What will she do? We’ll have to help.”

  “Such were my intentions,” Shakespeare said.

  “What have you in savings?”

  “Four crowns—two are in my doublet.”

  “Good luck at the cockfights over the year?”

  “Not so,” Shakespeare replied. “I’ve simply been saving my coins. Anne should lack nothing.”

  “What a liar you be,” said Cuthbert, grinning. He quickly added: “A statement made in jest, dear cousin.”

  “I see you value your ballocks.” Shakespeare laughed. “In truth, perhaps a bet or two did turn up sweet. Now, how does a gentleman offer the widow money without offending her honor? Margaret’s a woman sated in pride.”

  “Yes, a problem.” Cuthbert broke into a series of spasmodic coughs. “Then this is what you do. You must lie—in good faith, of course.”

  “How so?”

  “Tell her the money was owed to her husband. He had lent you the pounds when your debts mounted, and had never told her lest he sully your image in her gentle mind. If it pleases her, she may take her just due.”

  “She won’t take my money.”

  “You approach her with a humbleness of tone, yet insistence in your voice. The hooded eyelid, a grave downturn of the lip. Marry, Will, you’re a player! Use your skills and convince the poor widow.”

  “Aye, a player I am,” Shakespeare said. “But she was the superior player’s wife.”

  Cuthbert coughed and nodded. “True. But now she’s stricken with grief. Her finely honed senses have been dulled.” He nudged Shakespeare in the ribs. “The priest is leaving her alone. You have opportunity. Make the most of it.”

  Shakespeare nodded and approached the grieving widow. She was a tall woman with colorless eyes, the lids red and puffy with sorrow. Because her veil was up, the frosty air had bitten raw her cheeks and nose. She held in her hand a sprig of rosemary which she fingered absently.

  Such pain etched on her face, he thought. It served to increase his own.

  “William,” she said quietly.

  “Margaret.” He kissed her on the cheek then lowered his head.

  “Harry was a good soul, wasn’t he?” she asked.

  “Yes, he was.”

  “I loved him, Willy.”

  “I loved him as well,” Shakespeare said softly. “He was my brother in spirit if not in flesh. I’ll miss him dearly.”

  “So will we all,” Margaret said. “At least he’s not departed in vain. Nine living souls will attest to that.”

  “How are the children faring?”

  Margaret sighed. “Their father’s death leans heavily on their legs, but with God’s help they shall keep their balance.”

  “May God shine his love on them.”

  “Thank you,” Margaret whispered.

  Shakespeare held her hands. Margaret had always impressed him as being a strong woman. She had to be. Nine children and a husband who was never home. But Shakespeare never heard her complain. Harry had always supported his family quite well.

  Shakespeare cleared his throat. “I have something I must give you,” he said.

  “I’m not in want of anything.”

  “Nor do I claim you to be. I simply want to pay you back for money I borrowed from Harry.” Shakespeare reached into his doublet and took several gold coins. “It’s long overdue.”

  Margaret said, “Harry did not make it a habit to lend money, Will. You, more than anyone, should be aware of that. Ye men! Cuthbert had tried the same tactic and was no more successful.”

  The scoundrel, Shakespeare thought. Instructing me, knowing all the while I would fail. He sighed to himself.

  “I pray you, Margaret,” he said. “Take it so I may do honor to my mentor’s widow. The favor will be yours.” He extended his hand toward her. “Please.”

  Slowly, Margaret reached for the crowns, then retracted her hand. “If I’m in need, dear Will, I’ll call you. For now, let’s leave the matter untouched. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” Shakespeare stuffed the coins back into his doublet.

  “Aye, such times we live in, Will,” Margaret said, walking away from the grave. “An honest man cannot traverse the land without fear of the bastard highwaymen.”

  Shakespeare said, “Were I to find the cutpurse responsible for this act, I’d give him his entitlement. Bait for the unchained bear would be an appropriate death.”

  “Aye, make it slow and painful,” Margaret added.

  “And gruesome.”

  Margaret laughed hollowly. “We’re as bad as heathens. Christians do not engage in this kind of speech.”

  Shakespeare said nothing.

  “Aye, Will, you are as Harry. Incorrigible.” Margaret sighed. “How I yearn for more innocent days.”

  “An illusion, Margaret.”

  “Not so,” she protested. “My grandmother recalls such times.”

  Shakespeare didn’t answer.

  “And you think this not so?”

  “Memories of the elderly are bathed in sunlight—exceedingly bright yet very indistinct.”

  Margaret shook her head.

  “So I shall remain wistful and labor in my delusion,” she said. “It’s a terrible lot to be a player. Traveling on the road, dependent on the kindness of the hostler, alert and watchful lest you fall prey to the cozening knave that roams the country’s highways. If you were sound of mind, Will, you’d go back to Anne and the children and return to the occupation of your father.”

  Shakespeare shook his head.

  “Go home to your family, Will. Go home and make peace.”

  “My home is here with the fellowship, Margaret,” Shakespeare said. “I’d be one foot in the grave if I gave up the theater. Anne knows that. I cannot live without the stage, and she refuses to uproot. So we both act as we must. The great Guild of Whittawer will have to go on without me.” He smiled. “Heaven only knows how it has endured this long in my absence.”

  They walked a few more feet in silence. The wind shot chilled arrows that pierced their lungs.

  Shakespeare said, “Margaret, why did you bury Harry outside of London instead of in his family land up North?”

  Margaret turned white. “Harry mentioned his family to you?”

  “Very briefly. He claimed he was born of displaced nobility. But then again, he claimed diverse things, many of which were products of a prevaricating mind.”
r />   “Harry had kinsmen up North,” Margaret said. “But they are not family. You see how many have come to his funeral today.”

  “Yet he was visiting them when he was killed,” Shakespeare said.

  Margaret didn’t respond. She wrapped herself in resentment and wore it as visibly as her cloak. She bit her thumbnail, then said,

  “Who will find my husband’s murderer, Willy?”

  It was Shakespeare’s turn to be silent.

  “None of Harry’s true brothers have offered to seek vengeance for him,” Margaret said. “My husband’s soul cannot rest in eternity until the slayer is brought to justice.”

  “I’m aware of that, Margaret.”

  “When you had no one to turn to, twas Harry—”

  “I know,” Shakespeare interrupted. “What would you like me to do?”

  “Find this fiend,” Margaret announced.

  She stated it so simply, as if it were the only agenda open to him.

  “I suppose I could take a brief trip up North,” Shakespeare said. “Make a few inquiries…Although without Harry, the fellowship is sadly lacking competent players. And the theaters have just reopened—”

  “If the fellowship can go on without Harry, production can proceed without you. Find my husband’s murderer!”

  Shakespeare said he’d try, though his stomach had become knotted at the thought. He would depart in a few days.

  Margaret whispered breathlessly, “Hints are that the killer is well versed in the Italianate style of dueling. The rapier’s thrust cut deep into Harry’s heart.”

  “Then the murderer must have been very adroit,” noted Shakespeare. “Harry was a fine swordsman.”

  “Yes,” Margaret answered in a small voice. “Precaution, Will. Be clever or you’ll find your fortune as Harry’s.”

  “I shall step lightly,” Shakespeare said. For a moment, he wondered how she had ensnared him to do her bidding. But deep in his heart he knew that she really didn’t talk him into anything. Shakespeare wanted to avenge his mentor. He also knew that had the situation been reversed, Harry would have done the same for him. “If I find this Hell-rot scum, I shall be well prepared.”

  “And I shall love you all the more for my Harry’s revenge.” Margaret’s face had become alive with the desire for retribution. “God bless you, Will Shakespeare. An honorable man, you are.” Margaret kissed his cheek and dropped his hand. “I must rejoin my children and friends. You’ll keep me informed?”

  “Of everything I disclose.”

  “I wish you luck, William.” She let down her veil, tightened her cloak, and hurried away.

  Cuthbert waited for Shakespeare at the mouth of the open road. The overcast had started to lift, giving way to the green velvety hillside, a smooth verdant wave speckled with silver brush, ancient oaks, wildflowers, and the white nap of unshorn sheep. Taking a deep breath, he tried to exhale slowly, but instead let out a hacking cough. He cleared his lungs, spat out a large ball of phlegm and flexed his stiffened fingers. His eyes swelled with water and he blew his red, round nose.

  Bells from the church tower rang out the time—eleven-thirty by the clock. Burbage was well aware of the hour before it was announced. His stomach had told him it was time to take dinner. So late, he thought. And the sets still needed repairs. With Whitman’s funeral and so little time to prepare, the production would be a disaster! The troupe could no longer afford to play half-empty galleries. Not with the new batch of costumes recently purchased—genuine furs for the king’s robes. Such extravagance his brother, Richard, insisted upon. And the new swords! Not to mention the two new hired men and another member demanding to be a sharer.

  Then there was the constant threat of Black Death. The outbreaks of plague had subsided long enough to allow the Master of the Revels to reopen the theaters. But if this year’s epidemic proved to be as deadly as last year’s, the theater doors again would be locked. Gods, would that be calamitous financially!

  Shakespeare caught up with him and the two of them began their journey back to Southwark just across London Bridge.

  “You seem lost in thought, friend,” Shakespeare said.

  “The business of providing pleasure to others,” Cuthbert answered. “No matter. How’d you fare with the widow?”

  Shakespeare looked impish. “Margaret will be well provided for.”

  “Good,” sighed Cuthbert. “The lady always did prefer you to me.”

  “My waifish eyes, dear cousin. They tug at the heartstrings.”

  “Or leer at the chest,” mumbled Cuthbert. “Depending on your mood.”

  “She refused my crowns, my friend—no surprise, eh? But did agree to take them should there be a time of need.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Shakespeare stopped walking, “Cuthbert, who would do this to Harry? Yes, someone might filch Harry’s purse as he lay sleeping off one of his drunken states. That has happened before. But murder him? He had not a true enemy this side of the channel.”

  “Vagabonds knew nothing of his kindness.”

  “True—if his murderer was a highwayman…”

  “And you think it might be someone else? Someone he knew?”

  “I’ve no pull to one theory or the other.”

  Cuthbert said, “There is the possibility that Harry became drunk and a foolish fight ensued after words were spoken in choler. Harry often spoke carelessly when drunk.”

  “Yet he was equally quick with the apologies,” Shakespeare said. “Besides, he died in an open field and not on the floor of a tavern.”

  Alone, Shakespeare thought.

  “He could have been moved to the field,” Cuthbert said.

  “A lot of bother,” Shakespeare said.

  Cuthbert agreed. He asked,

  “What about the coins he was carrying? Margaret made mention that Harry had pocketed several angels before he left for his trip up North. They were gone when the body was discovered. Harry was robbed, Willy.”

  “Or Harry spent the money before he was murdered,” Shakespeare said.

  Cuthbert conceded the point. They resumed walking. It seemed to Shakespeare that Harry could have easily done in an ordinary highwayman itching for a scrap. Whitman was a deft swordsman. But was he caught off guard? Had the attacker been a fiercesome enemy or a madman possessed by an evil spirit? Shakespeare stepped in silence for several minutes, brooding over the fate of his partner and friend. Again Cuthbert placed a hand on his shoulder. He said, softly,

  “What’s the sense, Will? Harry is dead and gone. But we are still among the living. We’ve a performance at two and our stomachs are empty.”

  “I’ve not an appetite,” Shakespeare said. “But a pint of ale would well wet my throat.”

  Cuthbert coughed.

  “And yours, also,” added Shakespeare. “Have you seen an apothecary about the cough?”

  “Aye.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Quarter teaspoon dragon water, quarter teaspoon mithri-date, followed by a quart of flat warmed ale. If it worsens, perhaps more drastic measures need to be taken.”

  “What kind of measures?”

  “He made mention of leeching.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  “Nothing to be concerned about,” Cuthbert said.

  “Good.” Shakespeare paused, then said, “I must go up North for a few weeks.”

  Cuthbert stopped walking. “Up North? Alone? Are you mad?”

  “Far from it.”

  “Though I mean no disrespect for the deceased, we are already one player short, Will.”

  “Margaret asked it of me,” Shakespeare said. “And I would have done it anyway. I owe it to Harry.”

  “A minute ago you called him a millstone around your neck.”

  “He deserves peace in eternity,” Shakespeare said. His eyes suddenly moistened. “He visited me in my dreams last night, lectured me in the proper art of projection….” Shakespeare suddenly covered his eyes with his
hands. “His restless soul hangs about me like a nagging wife. The Devil with it! I must avenge him, Cuthbert, or I’ll have no peace of mind.”

  “But—”

  “Save your breath.”

  Cuthbert knew arguing with him was useless. Shakespeare and Whitman—both mules. He said, cautiously, “Perhaps the fellowship can handle your absence financially, if it’s only for one week—”

  “Give me two weeks. The open roads may be poor.”

  Cuthbert sighed. “Two weeks, then. I pray you, Willy, no more than two weeks.”

  Shakespeare agreed, then added, “Much can happen in two weeks.”

  Chapter 3

  Judging from the number of people, the funeral party was an immense success. It was only six in the evening, but scores of sweating bodies had already filled the Great Hall of the Ames’s manor house. Most were respected commoners—wealthy business merchants, gold traders, and local statesmen—but some gallants and important nobility had elected to make an appearance. The great ladies gossiped, huddling around the lit wall torches or floor sconces so they could be observed and admired under proper lighting. They fanned themselves, studied the crowds, the dress of those without title, wondering if the commoners were violating any of the sumptuary laws. Other wives stood against the black-draped walls and sneered at their husbands stuffing their mouths with food. Two dozen rows of banqueting tables were piled high with delicacies—milk-fed beef stewed with roots, venison in plum sauce, trays of poultry, platters of pheasants roasted over the open pit in the center of the room. The hall had become stifling, choked with the smell of perspiration and the heat of cooking.

  But Rebecca Lopez took no notice. Head down, she spoke to no one, and no one dared address her. She was the fiancée of the deceased, Raphael Nuñoz, and as such, entitled to her grief in solitude. She had chosen a spot under a drafty window at the far end of the Great Hall and remained alone, her aloofness constructing an invisible barrier that kept the guests away. Frosty air blew upon her neck and shoulders, and she was shivering—the only one in the room to do so. Her mother had offered her a blanket, but Rebecca had declined. She made no further effort to become warm.