“Bother me not, Becca. I’ve no time for your silly trifles.”
“I must talk with you, cousin.”
“Speak then with much haste.”
Rebecca looked around. The room was in complete disarray. Thomas was disheveled in his dress, his smooth, fair face coated with a sweaty blush.
“What happened to your bedchambers?” Rebecca asked.
“Tis none of your affair. State your business and leave me in peace. My mood is very dark.”
“You have lost your swords,” she said quietly.
“The bitch Nan has told you?” Thomas cried. “By God’s grace that woman has a mouth as big as a cave.”
“Aye, she told me.”
“My weapons were not misplaced, Becca. They were stolen.”
“And I know the thief.”
Thomas’s eyes widened. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Who is the scoundrel?”
Rebecca said, “Me.”
His mouth dropped open. “You?”
She nodded.
“Where are they?” Thomas asked, stunned.
Rebecca dropped to her knees. “I shall try to return your possessions as soon as possible. But in the meantime they are unavailable to me. I beg your forgiveness.”
“You took my sword and my dagger?” Thomas whispered.
“I shall pay you every penny of their cost—”
“They were irreplaceable! They were unique!”
“They can be remade—”
“Impossible! The blades were cold-steel tempered. Two times the process was repeated, the metal annealed thrice, making it as hard as granite without a trace of brittleness. The cross and ring guards were gilt and personally engraved. They were gifts from Uncle Solomon upon my knighthood. What should I tell him if he should ask to see them the next time he visits England? I…” He looked down at Rebecca kneeling before him and stopped himself from lunging at her throat. “Get out of my sight!”
“Tommy, let me explain—”
“Get out of here now, stupid bitch. Before I take a dagger to your heart!”
She grabbed his legs. “I beg of you, cousin, let me explain myself. I disgrace myself before you and plead for your most gracious mercy. I pray you, hear me out.”
Thomas pushed her away and walked over to the window. “Get off your knees, Becca. You’re truly pathetic when you beg. The princess who always scoffed at me should now beg for my mercy?” He let out a bitter laugh. “What did you do with my weapons, cousin? Give them to one of your drunken lovers?”
Rebecca stood shakily. “I…I have no drunken lover,” she said. “I have no lover at all.”
“Aye, mayhap this is true now, but many a besotted cocksman you’ve had in the past. History plays as a true seer of the present.”
“I have never, never mocked you, either to your face or behind your back! Never!” Rebecca hesitated, then added, “And very few lovers I’ve had, Thomas. As God is my witness, that is the truth. From whom have you heard differently?”
“What have you done with my weapons? Given them to my brother?”
“Given them to Dunstan?”
“Aye, Dunstan. You recall him, do you not? He is the Ames brother with the beard, the swain who oft you meet in a hayloft.”
“Thomas, I—”
“Get out of my sight!”
Rebecca clenched her hands and walked over to Thomas. She whispered, “Dunstan was years ago, Thomas.”
“Not according to him,” Thomas said. “But it matters not to me. Where are my weapons?” He grabbed her arm.
She gasped in pain. “My arm has been injured, Thomas. Let go.”
He loosened his grip. “What happened to it?”
She buried her face in her hands, then looked up and said, “I beg you not to breathe a word of this.”
“I shall decide that later. First, tell me your tale.”
Rebecca regained her composure and cleared her throat.
“My arm was wounded—slightly wounded—in a duel which I fought with your swords.”
Thomas stared at her.
“I became embroiled in a fight of honor, cousin.”
He continued gaping at her.
“Sometimes, I dress up like a man—”
“What?”
She took a deep breath and said, “Upon occasion I dress in Ben’s clothing and roam the marketplaces posing as the gallant. I did so today and a certain person took offense to me. I’m not certain what led to the quarrel. Perhaps I offended him in a manner of speech, or perhaps he was simply mad—”
“You are mad.”
“Tommy, I swear, I speak with the truth in my throat. A challenge of swords ensued and I was forced to duel with a Tom O’Bedlam lest I shame myself—and you by extension—as a knight.”
“Your imagination knows no limits, Becca. I give you high praise for invention.”
“All I say is true.”
Thomas paused a moment, his countenance softened. He asked, “Where did this duel take place?”
“On the bridge…around three by the clock.”
“On the bridge, you say.”
“Yes.”
“Who was your opponent?”
“By my father’s blood I swear this to be the truth. I dueled with William Shakespeare, the writer of the pamphlet Venus and Adonis. He’s also a player—”
“I know who he is,” Thomas interrupted. “Oft he plays the fool.”
“The very one.”
“And you fought a duel with him?”
“Aye.”
“And you swear in your throat what you say to be the truth?”
“A thousand times I swear,” Rebecca said. “We attracted a large crowd. Ask any gentleman who passed his time about the bridge and he would confirm my story.”
“What were you doing on the bridge?”
“I went to Southwark, to the theater to see the great player Burbage. I do so love to look at him.”
“What was the name of the theater?”
“The new one—the Unicorn. It is still incomplete—”
Thomas waved her to silence. He said, “I believe you.”
Rebecca smiled. “You do?”
“Yes. I was at the Unicorn this afternoon.”
“You were?” She burst into laughter. “Then with certainty you saw Shakespeare bolt off the stage in pursuit of me.”
“I saw him run off the platform,” Thomas said. “I didn’t know he was chasing you specifically. Afterward many a gentleman spoke of a duel between the clownish actor and a slight man with fancy footwork. I’m pleased that you’ve retained the steps that I had taught you in our childhood.”
“Oh, Thomas! I could not have survived had I any other teacher but you.” She hugged him, but he broke her hold and stepped away.
“I want my weapons back,” he said.
“I swear on my honor that I will do whatever possible to get them—”
“I will go to Shakespeare—”
“No, you mustn’t—”
“Tell me not what to do, cousin.”
“Please, Thomas. There were unspoken words between me and Shakespeare that need to be clarified. I know that if I explain the situation to him, he will be kind and return your weapons. Let me try—”
“Why did you do such a knavish thing, Becca? Borrowing my weapons without my permission. You took what was not yours for the taking. Why?”
“Would you have lent them to me had I asked?”
“No. But you had no right—”
“Aye, I had no right. But I took them because I wanted them. They’re symbols of power, and as a lowly woman, I have no power. Furthermore, I took the best of your swords. I’m nothing, Thomas. Simply a future receptacle for some man’s seed. For a brief moment I just wanted more. It was knavish to take your weapons, but I don’t regret it. I felt so mighty as I dueled. Exhilarated! For once my life rested in my hands.”
Thomas said nothing.
Rebecca said, “I swear the weapon
s will be returned to you. I’ll give you whatever I own as compensation if they are damaged.”
He spun around and looked at her.
“Why did you go to him?”
“To whom?”
“To Dunstan,” Thomas said. “You must have known the way he spoke about you. The way he speaks about you still.”
Rebecca stiffened. “I know.”
“He laughs at you, Becca. Describes your body to sodden swine he calls his drinking friends. He tells me what he does to you, what he makes you do to him—so open and careless he is in his gossip. Tis a miracle that neither your father nor Grace has ever found out.”
“Dunstan is dreaming in the past,” Rebecca said tightly. “I have not been with him in years. He begs me constantly to bed him and I refuse over and over. His gossip is spiteful.” She clenched her hands until the knuckles turned white. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’m still furious at you. Thou wast mine, Becca. Mine and Miguel’s. We treated you as a peer while Dunstan spat in your face and mocked you to the world. Yet you kissed his arse and became his whore.” Thomas lowered his head. His voice softened to a whisper: “Dunstan is a callous braggart and an insufferable fop. I want to kill him when he laughs at you. To defend your honor. But more so, I want to kill you for allowing such abasement.”
“There is no more abasement.”
“Or so you say.”
“Tis the truth!” Rebecca insisted. “Yet I seem not to convince you otherwise. How dim is the surface of a tarnished image.” She turned her back to him and stared out the window.
Thomas said, “I still goad Dunstan into sparring with me. Though Lord knows he couldn’t fence his way out of a chicken coop. I play with the churl, then spring upon him, cutting him down until I hold my dagger at his chest. But it seems not to bother Dunstan. He smiles at me with a well-sated smile that said, ‘Aye, you’ve got the sword, but I’ve got Becca.’”
Thomas looked at Rebecca gazing outward. She was hugging herself, kneading her forearms with thin, delicate fingers. He started to speak again, then faltered. Finally he said, “Even if it is over, as you say, why did you allow him to humiliate you?”
“He gave me things,” Rebecca said without hesitation.
“You played the strumpet for trinkets?”
“For books, Thomas.” She whirled around, her face suffused with rage. “For lessons in Latin, Greek, Arabic, French…I hungered for knowledge, to know the world about me, and no one else was willing to tutor me except Dunstan. As I grew older, you went off with your fellows and I was left behind with the women. So I paid the piper and became Dunstan’s whore. I’m sorry it hurt you, Thomas. I never preferred him to you. It wasn’t with pride that I did what I did.”
She bit her lip. “Tis so cruel of you to recut old wounds. So unlike the gentle man that you are. You act as indecent as your brother.”
Thomas’s blush deepened to scarlet. “I apologize,” he said.
Rebecca didn’t respond. She couldn’t. A lump was clogging her throat.
“Truly, I’m sorry for my indiscretion, Becca,” Thomas said.
She straightened her posture and looked him in the eye, forcing up a tearful smile. “I know you are a good soul, Tommy. That your harsh words come from care rather than scorn. I have no need of your apology.”
Thomas lifted Rebecca’s hand to his lips.
“I love thee,” he whispered.
“I know.”
Her fingertips touched his lips, stroked his beardless face. He closed his eyes, then abruptly pulled away from her. Shyly, he asked,
“Did you love my brother—as a lover?”
“Sometimes. Despite his rough talk now, he was gentle back then. I ended our dalliances when he had nothing more to teach me—with his mind as well as his body. As you’ve stated, he was not the swordsman that you were. I’d wanted you to continue to school me in the art of the fence. But you pushed me aside and ignored my constant requests.”
“I was ired by your betrayal.”
“I understand,” Rebecca said. “Pray, Tommy, you try to understand me as well.”
Thomas brushed the floor with the sole of his shoe and said, “Did you ever think of me as you loved Dunstan?”
“Many times, Thomas,” Rebecca answered in earnest. “Many times.”
Chapter 17
Hamor Lowe kept guard from a muck heap. The smell was foul, but the vantage point was splendid. He could easily espy Mary Biddle trying to urge the coney to bed. The doxy had removed her bodice and sleeve and had unpinned her hair—golden tresses resting on smooth skin twinkling with candlelight. Gods, she was lovely. Just as she’d been that night.
Lowe sighed as he reminisced. Mary had been such a bene mort, full of energy and moaning like a birthing cow. He’d only niggled with her the one time. A gift from Mackering for successfully cheating a gentleman—four crowns he’d walked away with. Mackering had laughed, slapped him on the shoulder, kissed him on the cheek, but kept all the money. When Lowe had complained, Mary was tossed his way, a toy to appease his anger. And what a toy she’d been! But when the night ended, so did affection for Lowe. Now the doxy cursed and teased him whenever they worked together.
The Devil take her, he should.
Spitting, Lowe returned his attention to the lit window. Mary was stroking the gentleman’s cheek with her left hand and working on his clothes with her right, the nimble fingers unfastening the ties of his doublet. The gull was ogling the whore, face filled with lust. His mouth was open, his eyes sweeping over her body like a maid’s broom. He smiled stupidly and said something to the doxy. She laughed and licked his upper lip. He gave her back another fool’s grin. She winked and whispered something in his ear. The man’s eyes widened and his tongue fell out of his mouth.
A God’s blood, do all men look that idiotic when the sting hits them fierce?
The gentleman’s doublet and sleeves were off now. Mary laid them by the open window, then began to untie the points of his hose.
The coney pushed her head toward the floor, and she disappeared from sight for a moment.
She came back into view and shook her head no.
The dupe became angry and tried to push her down again.
She resisted, cocked her head to one side and said something to the dupe.
He nodded, clumsily undid his points and tugged his hose from his legs while remaining upright. For a moment his stockings were bunched around his left foot and he hopped around the room, trying to maintain his balance as he yanked them free. Finally the stockings were off and he lunged at Mary.
She sidestepped him, and Lowe saw him disappear from the window. Mary laughed wildly.
Quickly, she placed the gentleman’s stockings, hose, and shoes by the window, and baited her would-be lover to come hither.
He was standing again, his two fool fingers erect and placed behind his head as if they were the horns of Pan.
She laughed, mimed mock fright and brought her hand to her mouth.
The coney chased her around the room. Then they both disappeared from view.
Lowe saw a skirt fly up in the air, followed by her chemise. Then nothing.
Ten minutes later she stood bare-chested, her nipples hard and erect. She peered out the window and shook her head gently.
Lowe sighed and settled back down into the pile of shit.
The gentleman was still not sated.
She disappeared again.
The crier called out three in the morning.
Lowe sighed. He hoped the booty tonight would be enough to please Master George. As of late the master had been smoking in a beastly mood, and no amount of money was ever enough.
Mackering’s moodiness had started after the trip up North, Lowe thought; after he and Christopher Mudd had gulled that coney named Whitman at the Fishhead. Lowe had had an evil feeling about it from the start. Aye, an angel they cheated out of him, but the master hadn’t been pleased about their winnings. Maybe the
master had expected more, who knew with him? And there’d been something strange about Whitman, something troubling. He’d accepted his loss without ever demanding to see the dice.
And then Whitman turned up dead. The master had been furious. Though Mackering enjoyed announcing his cheats to all the world, he wasn’t pleased to be associated with a dead man. He cursed his men, swore that he’d cut off the tips of their things if the authorities found out they’d been the last to see the dead man alive. And the master always kept his promises.
Lowe realized he’d been squeezing his crotch and released his grip.
Fifteen minutes had gone by.
And now that fool-player Shakespeare had been asking questions about Mackering on the bridge this afternoon. After his duel with the skinny runt with the fancy sword. Lowe also had heard Shakespeare asking about the Whitman cove. The talk bothered him more than the stink of the dung. The gossip must be reported to Master George, and tush, that would stoke his fire. Though he was not a follower of God—condemned to Hell he was—Lowe prayed that Mackering wouldn’t settle his fury on the messenger.
Finally, a half hour later, Mary stood up fully dressed. She placed several articles of clothing by the window, tucked a doublet under her arm, wrapped herself in a sheet, then hoisted herself outward. She fell into the soft underbrush, then trotted over to the muck heap.
“The shit smells ripe,” Mary said. “The perfume of a Jake-farmer suits you well, Master Lowe.”
“Shut your mouth, you stinkin’ whore.”
“Do your hookin’ and let’s be gone,” Mary said. “The jack sleeps lightly.”
“Nip his purse?” Lowe asked.
“Aye, lots of coins in it. George will be buying big at the taverns.”
“How much did you lift?”
“None of your affairs!”
“Shut your mouth!”
She lifted up her skirt.
“Look but don’t touch, Hammy. Or I’ll tell the master and he’ll cut yours off.”
“Get your tongue a-tying, you stupid stew,” Lowe said. “All you’d be ever giving me is the King’s Evil.”
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