“The great pox, eh?” Mary laughed, pinning up her hair. “You wouldn’t know the difference. Yours is about to fall off from rot anyway.”
“Piss off, stew.”
“G’wan,” she snickered. “Do yer anglin’ and let’s begone from the hill of shit.”
“I still dunno why you dinna throw the booty out the window and let me catch it.”
“That’d be smartass, jack.” Mary sneered. “What if me gentleman roused and caught me tossing out his clothes?”
“You coulda thought up a pretty tale.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno.” Lowe shrugged, then said, “You coulda told him you were hanging them up to dry.”
“Yer stupider than you look.” Mary laughed. “No wonder you never made it past a hooker. And speakin’ of hookin’, do some anglin’ instead of complainin’.”
“I’m waitin’ for the master to come with the horses.”
“Don’t wait too long or me coney’ll be wakin’.”
Lowe said, “I can pilfer the clothes now, but what ifin he spies us? We can’t go far without the horses.”
Mary said, “Just do it. The master’ll be comin’ afore long.”
“Then stand aside while I do my labor.”
“Piss off. I’m not in your way, jack.”
“Piss off yourself, punk.” Lowe pulled out two iron staffs and fitted them together into a crome—a pole topped with a large steel hook. Deftly he brought it to the open window and caught the doublet onto the hook. A moment later the doublet was in Lowe’s possession.
“Go fer the sleeves,” Mary said. “They’re sewn with gold thread. The fabric’ll go for two pounds a yard.”
“Aye.” Lowe fished in three pairs of sleeves.
“Here’s the master with the horses,” Mary said, waving him over. “He’s pulling one fer you, Hammy.”
Mackering rode up to the dung heap, dismounted, then fed both horses a cube of sugar. He glared at Lowe and said, “You couldn’t have found a better place than this stinkpot?”
“Was the only place where I could see Mary clearly,” Lowe said.
“You’re a dolt, Lowe,” Mackering said. “A jackass with shit where brains should be. You must feel quite at home in this muck pile.”
“Master George, I—”
“Shut up and keep on with your angling before the gentleman wakes up.” Mackering picked up a doublet and smiled at Mary. “Bene clothes he wears, my sweet little thing. You chose your sap well tonight.”
Mary smiled and curtsied.
“And how much was in his bung?”
Mary handed Mackering the gentleman’s purse. Mackering took out the coins, bit them, then slipped them into his doublet.
“Tis good,” Mackering said. His expression suddenly hardened. “You wouldn’t be filching a bit off the top, would you, Mary?”
“Oh no, Master George. Never!”
“Open your mouth, girl.”
Mary obeyed and Mackering searched it, then her anus and vagina. Finding them empty, he smiled and patted her bum. He asked,
“Did you lay out the man’s sheets, Mary?”
“He only had but one, Master George,” Mary said nervously. “I wrapped it around me body and took it myself when I jumped out the window.”
Mackering picked up the sheet, felt the cloth between his thumb and middle finger and shook his head.
“Cheap,” he sneered. “Won’t bring in more than a tuppence.”
“Aye, but look at his sleeves, Master George….”
Mary held her breath.
“Ah, these are beneship indeed,” said Mackering. “Thick velvet, full of gold-threaded embroidery.”
The whore smiled with relief. Mackering asked, “What else have you hooked, Hamor?”
“I just pulled in four sets of hose,” the angler answered. “And two pairs of shoes.”
“Did you leave him what to wear, Mary?”
She shook her head no.
Mackering laughed. “Let the jack parade in his chemise.”
“Finished,” Lowe said, taking apart the pole.
“Then pack up the goods and let’s be gone.”
“Master George?” said the hooker.
“Aye?”
“I heard your name being gossiped about on the bridge today.”
Mackering went rigid. “Go on.”
“A player was asking about you. He goes by the name—”
“William Shakespeare.”
“Aye,” said Lowe. “Twas Shakespeare.”
“And?” Mackering asked.
“He asked many a gentleman about where you supped and drank,” Lowe said, beginning to shake. “Though they heard of you, Master George—who hasn’t heard of your great reputation—no one claimed to know where you did your boozing.”
“Lo be the one to suffer my sword, eh?”
“Aye,” said Lowe. His hands felt numb, and he dropped a shoe into the pile of muck.
“Clod,” Mackering said. In a motion as swift as lightning he whipped Lowe across the face with the handle of his dagger. Mary gasped out loud as Lowe clutched his cheekbone.
“Shut up, you wailing whore,” snapped Mackering, putting the point to her throat.
Wetting her chemise, Mary clasped her hand over her mouth and trembled.
Mackering laughed and withdrew the dagger. “Tarry not, Lowe. Let’s get on with it. Mary, as soon as we’re safe, tend to Lowe’s small sore, will you?”
“Aye, Master George.”
“And Hamor, my good man, worry not about William Shakespeare,” Mackering said. “I’ll take fine care of him.”
“Aye, Master George,” Lowe said, holding the side of his face and biting back pain. “Surely you will.”
“Surely I will.” Mackering gave a lopsided smile. When Lowe had finished packing the clothes, Mackering picked up a rock and flung it into the gentleman’s open window. A minute later a face still heavy with sleep looked down upon them.
“Ho, scoundrel!” the gentleman cried. “Who tossed that rock into my chambers?”
“I did,” Mackering yelled.
“Who are you?” the gentleman hollered.
“You may tell the world that you were pilfered by the highest uprightman Mackering.” George turned to Lowe and said, “Upon your horse.”
“Mackering, you cozener!” the gentleman screamed. “Twas your doxy whom I had?”
“The very one, jack.” Mackering swung Mary onto his horse. “You’ve been had by the best, and that in itself is an honor. Spread my name to all who test me and try to best me. Let them beware, for they will be left as naked as thee. Never will they win. Chase us if you can. But you’d better be getting dressed afore you do.”
Mackering mounted his horse, yanked on the reins until the horse reared upward, then left the gentleman spilling his curses into the cold night air.
Chapter 18
The gyrfalcon spread her wings of pure white, then soared upward until she was bleached from the sky by sunlight. Roderigo tried to track the bird visually, but the blinding rays caused his eyes to water until his vision was a blur. Every time the doctor cast the bird, he became tense, so fine a hunter she was and so rare was her color. He had told no one about her except Francis, his trusted falconer, but somehow the word had escaped. The creature was the envy of many a high-ranking noble and had to be kept in a separate mew under armed guard twenty-four hours a day. Lopez hawked with her under utmost secrecy, and took with him a large staff of trained swordsmen to fend off any wanton attackers.
A raven darted into the sky, and in a finger snap the falcon swooped upon it—a tapestry of black and white against a cerulean canvas. A moment later the raven was nothing more than a burst of pitch-colored feathers and a bloody carcass plummeting to the ground. Lopez ordered his retriever to fetch the pickings, and held out his arm ramrod straight. The gyrfalcon landed on his hawking glove, an ebony plume trapped in her beak, the back of her claws stained with blood. Bending
his arm at the elbow, Roderigo took out a piece of raw heron’s heart from a leather pouch and fed it to the bird. It was unusually fair weather for mid-May, the mist burned away by unseasonable heat, perfect air for birding.
Roderigo looked at Rebecca. She was dressed in a kelly-green bodice and skirt overlaid with black lace. Her gloves were new—black velvet embroided with gold and green thread. She was truly a sight to admire, of beautiful form and face. A woman much wanted, but soon to be wasted if no husband was soon found. He said, “Snowbird is truly a magnificent specimen. Kissed by God with a keen acumen, sharp vision, talons of remarkable strength, and a heavenly beauty so rare it would make an angel weep. But all of her attributes are worth nothing unless she’s made suitable for her purpose. A stunning but wild bird is a sacrilege, daughter. An upset in God’s divine order.”
Rebecca looked at her father, then stared at the rolling hillocks around her. They were hawking on the common property—land owned equally by her father, her uncle Jorge, her uncle Solomon, and Miguel’s father Hector. The conversos were indeed landed gentry. The vast acreage held not only wooded area for hawking, but fields for their livestock—cows, goats, and sheep. Each family owned its own manor house and stable which fronted the huge parcel. Dunstan and Thomas, being married men with families, lived on the back side of the land in modest twelve-room houses owned by their father. Next to her cousins’ homes lay the skeletal frame of another house, one meant for her and Raphael. Rebecca had not passed by it since the day her betrothed had died.
Some day all the houses and land would pass to Benjamin, Dunstan, Miguel, and Jacob—Uncle Solomon’s eldest son. Rebecca often wondered where Thomas fit in, but the thought of being without property never seemed to bother him.
Roderigo gently raised Rebecca’s face until her eyes met his. “We mustn’t upset the order, eh, Becca?”
Rebecca remained silent.
“Bah.” Roderigo released her chin. “You’ve begged me to take you hawking with Snowbird ever since she was a wee eyas, and yet you watch her possess the sky and remain as stone. I should have thought you’d have been thrilled by the display of her hunt.”
The retriever sprinted over to Roderigo and dropped the raven at his feet. The bird was still alive, gasping its last breaths. Roderigo picked up the blackbird by its talons and held it before Rebecca’s eyes.
“Does the sight of blood weaken your stomach, daughter?”
Rebecca said, “Only if it’s my own.”
Roderigo laughed heartily, then said, “Here, here.”
He pulled out a knife, and without flinching, bent the bird’s neck backward and slit its throat. Immediately he turned the decapitated body upside down and let the blood run off. The dog went wild, lapping up the stream of fresh blood as it splashed to the ground.
Ritual slaughtering—the blessing over the animal to be butchered, the slitting of the throat. The conversos performed their religious duties with each bird caught by the hawks, be it alive or dead. Of course, slaughtering live birds was preferable, more in keeping with the customs of the old ways. Her father and uncles killed the domestic fowl in the same manner. The younger men were in charge of the big beasts—the cows and sheep. Raphael and Benjamin would constrain the animal with ropes. Miguel would pull back the head and Thomas would sever the vessels of the neck in a single pass. Rebecca had once witnessed the butchery of a sheep when she was a girl. The dumb thing had thrashed about, bleated pathetically. The racket had been horrifying. Thomas’s hand never wavered. Afterward she vomited. Rebecca had been partially relieved when she learned that Dunstan had no stomach for blood either. As an adult she outgrew her squeamishness. Dunstan never did.
“My compliments on a job neatly done,” Rebecca said.
Roderigo tossed the bird’s head a distance of twenty feet. The retriever darted after the scrap, his mouth drooling with hunger.
Rebecca said, “Why have you brought me out here, Father?”
“As I’ve stated, you’ve asked to accompany me and Snowbird hawking.”
“And that is the only reason? To satisfy my desires?”
“You’re clever.” Roderigo stroked her cheek. “You tell me.”
“May I hold Snowbird?” she asked, slipping on a thick leather glove.
“Can I trust you?”
“Yes.”
Roderigo hesitated, then brought the falcon to Rebecca’s extended arm. She pushed on the bird’s chest. The falcon flapped her wings, then hopped onto her glove. She giggled with delight.
“Father, she’s splendid! Such strength! In the female species, nonetheless. My heart is beating so rapidly, I’m so excited to hold her.” She turned to Roderigo. “Do you ever worry that you’ll not be able to reclaim her?”
“Every time I cast her aloft I worry that she’ll fly away, or become entangled in a tree and lose her plumage.” Roderigo paused. “But hawks must hawk…and women must marry. The order of life.”
Rebecca handed the falcon back to Roderigo and lowered her head. Dressing as a man had been nothing more than a diversion—something done for excitement. When she’d stripped herself of male dress, all her freedom had fallen off. Gently she touched her dueling scratch hidden under a velvet sleeve. She said, “You’ve found me a husband, have you not?”
“Aye, in a manner of speaking.” Roderigo called to his falconer. “Francis, take Snowbird back to the mew and hood her.” The doctor handed him the gyrfalcon and the dead raven. “I fear the bright sun has made her exhausted,” he said. “Make sure you reward Snowbird with the kidneys and the heart of the raven.”
“As you say, Dr. Lopez,” said Francis, smoothing Snowbird’s feathers. He was a young, wiry man of nineteen with feathery blond hair, a long nose, and close-set cornflower-blue eyes. Rebecca often wondered if the falconer was part hawk himself—a creation of a bird and some Olympic god in a moment of drunken stupor. She smiled at Francis, but he didn’t notice.
“Snowbird seemed a bit unsteady on her left side,” said the falconer.
“Aye?” said Roderigo.
“Ever so slightly, especially when she swoops north by northeast. I think her right ala should be cropped back a wee bit to aid her balance.”
“Whatever you say,” Roderigo said.
“And we’re almost out of herbs necessary for her eye-drops, Dr. Lopez.”
“Ask Martino for whatever you need,” Roderigo said. “How fares the Queen’s goshawk?”
“She is ready to be returned to the royal mew.”
“Splendid, Francis,” Roderigo exclaimed. “Well done.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Francis kissed the bird’s beak, closed her eyes, and hooded the falcon. “We’ve got a sweet treat for you, my beautiful lover,” he cooed as he walked away.
Alone with Rebecca, Roderigo said, “Snowbird could well mint me hundreds of pounds if I sold her on the open market. But, alas, it is rumored that the Queen would take much pleasure in adding her to the royal yard.”
“What are you going to do?” Rebecca asked.
“I shall offer the bird to Her Grace, of course. We all do things that we like not, eh, daughter?”
“Who is my husband to be?”
“I give you choices, Becca. I cosset you excessively. A weakness of mine that I should overcome!”
“What are my choices?”
“They are thus. You may become a maid of honor at court, or you may marry Miguel. Personally, I hope you select the latter. Better to have a legitimate heir with a woman than to have a bastard with a swain of noble birth.”
Rebecca paused, confused. “I know not—”
“Don’t lie to me, Becca! I know what you do when you’re alone in the house.”
Rebecca stared at him. Roderigo pulled out a brown cap decorated by a bent peacock feather from his doublet.
“Does this look familiar?” he asked. “It was found yesterday, snagged on one of the hedges.”
“By whom?”
“Does it matter?”
“Aye, to me it does.”
“By de Andrada, if you must know.” Roderigo grabbed her shoulders. “Who does it belong to, Becca? Who are you dallying with behind my back?”
“Father, this cap belongs—” She stopped. If she admitted she had no lover and that the cap was Ben’s, it would lead to many questions—reveal her preoccupation with dressing as a man. She knew her father would become more enraged by her games than by normal female desires.
“Go on,” Roderigo said.
“I have nothing to say,” Rebecca answered.
“Rebecca, how could you act so carelessly!” Roderigo cried. “You could be carrying a bastard in your belly this moment! Then, despite that face, who decent would want you, girl? No one!”
“Father—”
“Listen to me,” Roderigo interrupted. “If you should decide to go to court, I would be much pleased if you’d flatter Essex, but keep your legs crossed—that is, if your womb is empty as I pray it should be. The last thing I need is a bastard grandchild by a bastard.”
“May I—”
“Quiet! Interrupt not my thoughts.” Roderigo began to pace. “If you’re already with child, Becca, you must attract a man of noble lineage and much money, and bed him no matter how repulsive he be to you. Then, at least, if your bastard is a son, he should be well cared for. Just make sure he’s well-stocked with land and gold.”
“May I speak?”
“Not yet. If your womb is empty and you marry Miguel, I shall insist upon one pure-blooded male heir. Surely that’s not too much to ask. After that I’m sure the boy would be happy to claim as his own any bastard that you’d produce and live the rest of his life contentedly with you in separate beds. After all, you two are fond of each other, are you not?”
“Yes, but—”
“Marriage to Miguel would serve thrice its purpose, Becca. The first would be a proper male heir, the second would be congenial companionship for life—that’s not to be scoffed at. The third purpose, my dear daughter, would be a boon for you. You could sport with whomever you’d want without incurring the wrath of a jealous husband…as long as you were discreet.”
The Quality of Mercy Page 20