“I forgot the subject on which I was about to speak.” He swallowed a gulp of ale. “Spare me embarrassment, sir, and say your words.”
Rebecca took another sip of ale, her head feeling pleasantly hazy. She leaned over the table and said, “How do you propose to sneak into Mackering’s ranks?”
“In my duties as a player I have been a lord, a gallant, a soldier of fortune, a ghost, a fairy, a fool, a cook, a laborer, and diverse women of all walks of life. I have lived in many centuries and died numerous times in duels, and of injuries and diseases. Once, my life was taken by my own hand, what a sorrowful scene that was.” Shakespeare grinned with the recollection. “I’ll have no trouble playing the scoundrel, slipping into Mackering’s netherworld as smoothly as melted wax upon a newly dipped candle, viewing it as simply another part.”
“Mackering is clever. The uprightman must know you desire his audience. He has thus avoided you. He’ll be looking out for your disguises and will no doubt have a few masks of his own.”
“Then we’ll have to see who’s the more convincing player.”
“And if he ensnares you? Traps you? Threatens you with bodily harm? How are you to protect yourself?”
“Let it happen first, sir.” Shakespeare clenched his fists.
“He’s dangerous.” Rebecca placed her hand upon his arm, then remembered that she was dressed as a man and quickly withdrew her hand. “I present to you another option—an addendum to your original plan.”
“Speak.”
Rebecca fortified herself with a gulp of ale. She said, “Let me come with you—”
“Never!”
“I’ll be your doxy! I can fence. Four armed hands are better than two.”
“Then give me Thomas’s hands. At the least, Thomas’s arms.”
“Stop the puns and listen to me. Thomas would not defend you. But I would. I owe it to you after what you did—”
“Out of the question.”
“But—”
“No!”
“Shakespeare, you saw my skill at the fence. True my strength could easily be bested by any man of substance, but my footwork! Find me a nobleman as light on the toes as I…save my cousin, of course.”
Shakespeare didn’t answer her.
Rebecca thought back to their duel. Yes, it had been chilling to look death in the face. But oh how exciting it had been! It had turned her blood truly sanguine, hot with expectation, her heart pumping at full strength. And now was the chance to do something bold and outrageous before the chains of marriage bound her permanently. A last bout of freedom before turning fat and matronly. What memories it would etch into her brain. “Pray, let me help you, Shakespeare,” Rebecca pleaded. Her voice had raised in pitch. She lowered it and added, “The thrill would be mine.”
“Tis a solo battle I fight, sir.”
“But it needn’t be that way.”
Shakespeare whispered, “As I recall from conversations past, you have a future husband. Would he give his blessing to your plan?”
Rebecca was silent.
“I thought not,” said Shakespeare. “And when is the knight who sits before me due to take his vows?”
“Answer my question first,” said Rebecca, undeterred.
“First, ask one.”
“May I play your doxy?”
“A most definite no, sir.”
“Then give to me sufficient reason.”
“Your safety.”
“I can care for myself.”
“You’ve just admitted any man of substance can best you. And you’ve warned me that Mackering is much more than any substantial man. You cannot impose upon me the responsibility of your welfare. It’s too big a burden for me. If anything should happen to you, I’d be consumed in guilt.”
Rebecca fell back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest.
“Show the manners of your rank, sir,” Shakespeare chided. There was a twinkle in his eye. “We’re in public.”
Rebecca didn’t answer, but her expression softened. If she couldn’t win her way by the power of her words, perhaps feminine smiles would woo him. She would try again later.
Shakespeare asked, “When are your nuptials?”
“We marry in February—a week after Candlemas.”
Shakespeare raised his tankard. “I wish you much cheer and good hap.”
Rebecca raised her tankard, then sipped her ale.
“Will your future husband allow you to continue masking as a man?” asked Shakespeare.
“I know not,” Rebecca said. “He’s unaware of my peculiarities.” She added, “Though I am well aware of his.”
“Peculiarities?”
Rebecca took another swallow of ale and nodded.
“What peculiarities?” Shakespeare asked.
Rebecca thought a moment, her brain spinning from drink. “A tragedy about Marlowe,” she said.
“Horrible,” Shakespeare said with feeling. Though he wasn’t a close friend of Marlowe’s, Shakespeare had been a great admirer of the poet. To die such a wretched death, stabbed in the back during a heated—and no doubt drunken—argument in a dark tavern at Deptford.
Too many deaths in too short a time.
Glumly, Shakespeare said, “What made you think of Marlowe? Did you know him?”
“My betrothed did. He told me of his death yesterday. It had quite an effect on him.”
Shakespeare asked, “How well did your fiancé know Marlowe?”
“At one point I believe he knew him intimately.”
“Intimately?”
“Very intimately.”
“I see…” Shakespeare said, wondering: What kind of marriage would that be? Perhaps the man was a satyr, interested in anyone and anything. He hesitated, then asked, “If I may be so bold to ask, have you and your betrothed…”
She stared at him, then shook her head. “We’ve yet to discuss what we both know.”
“But you intend to live with him as man and wife,” Shakespeare said.
“We will be man and wife, yes,” Rebecca said. “Though I’m sure he prefers me dressed as a knight than dressed as a bride.”
Shakespeare didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say.
Rebecca shrugged and ordered another tankard of ale. “The marriage was arranged by my father.”
“And the agreement is satisfactory to you?”
“My opinion is of no consequence,” Rebecca said. “I know Miguel well if not intimately. I love him greatly, and in his own way he loves me.”
There was silence.
“One could say the arrangement differs little from your own lawful wedlock,” she said.
“Not at all,” Shakespeare protested. “Not at all! I’m on most cordial—and intimate—terms with my wife.”
“But you see her little.”
“Not as often as I desire.”
“And no doubt you desire her often.”
Shakespeare laughed, sipped his ale. “Aye. Tis true.”
Rebecca cocked her head. A very ungallant gesture, but one that brought a blush to his cheeks. She asked, “So what do you do when you feel the sting?”
“Tis none of your affair,” Shakespeare snapped.
“Sorry.”
The tapster placed a full tankard of ale in front of Rebecca. She raised it in the air and drank. Shakespeare drummed his fingers on the table. He asked,
“Why did your father arrange for you such an unusual marriage? For title?”
“No.”
“Money?”
“Nay.”
Shakespeare waited.
Rebecca took a huge gulp and coughed. Shakespeare patted on her back. After she dried her watering eyes, she said,
“You’ll not breathe a word of this?”
“Not a peep.”
“He’s my kinsman,” she said.
“The marriage is incestuous?”
“God forbid such an abomination! He’s a distant relation.”
“And?”
/> Rebecca touched her cheek. It was hot and moist. The drink was making her dizzy. Or perhaps she was dizzy because she’d drunk not enough. She swallowed more ale and said, “We marry amongst each other because we have family secrets.”
“Such as?”
“Our practices—” Rebecca stopped herself. She was sailing in troubled waters. “I cannot tell you.”
“You practice the art of witchcraft?” Shakespeare asked, wide-eyed.
“Shh…Nay! Not a whit of black arts have I or my kinsmen ever known…Simply put, we retain some practices…Oh, why am I confessing this to you?”
“I assure you your secrets are safe with me.”
Two plates of mutton and cabbage were placed before them. Rebecca finished her tankard of ale and signaled the tapster for a third.
“What is your secret?” Shakespeare asked.
“I cannot—”
“Aye, you can,” he whispered. “I see by your eyes that you desire to rid the recesses of your heart of its heavy load. I’ve confessed to you my demons, tell me yours.”
Rebecca said nothing. This time, instead of refilling her tankard, a full pitcher of ale was brought to the table. Rebecca poured, then took a full swallow.
“Tell me,” prodded Shakespeare.
“Our ancestors…We are still influenced by them. We practice some customs of the old religion.”
“I knew it!” Shakespeare said, pounding his fist on the table.
“Shh.”
“You’re Spanish—”
“Portuguese.”
“The same thing.”
“Not at all!”
“You’re secret Papist, aye?” Shakespeare whispered. “A Jesuit, mayhap. Did not you mention your kinsmen trade with them?”
“Yes—I mean no! I mean—”
“Not to fear, sir. Harry was also a secret Papist and it matters not to me. I still love him dearly. Do you have icons of the virgin and candles stashed away in some hidden nest?”
“You don’t understand—”
“Have you also relatives in the North?”
“Nay! None.” Rebecca gulped some ale. “My mouth stretches so wide, it’s cavernous. Erase this conversation from your memory.”
“Done,” Shakespeare said. “But if ever you want to speak of personal matters, you may speak with me as confidently as you talk to yourself.”
“I thank you.” Rebecca touched her temples with her fingertips. “My head aches.”
“You drink much on an empty stomach,” Shakespeare said. He cut up pieces of mutton and fed her one with his fingers. “You must eat. Later we shall resume our conversation.”
“Not this one.”
“As you wish, sir.” Shakespeare handed her another piece of mutton. “Eat.”
Rebecca took the meat and chewed it indifferently, washing it down with ale. She picked up a cooked leaf of cabbage, wrapped it around her finger, then placed it daintily into her mouth. She repeated the gesture and noticed Shakespeare staring at her.
“Is my beard slipping from my face?” she whispered.
“No. Simply, I’ve never seen a gallant eat his victuals in such a manner.”
She straightened up in her chair, belched, then bit a chunk of mutton off the leg bone.
“Now do I play better the knight?”
“More believable,” said Shakespeare, “though your belch was womanly.”
Rebecca smiled. The food in her stomach eased the pain in her head. She felt light once again, as if she were floating. She opened her mouth and tried to burp, but nothing came out.
“Finish your dinner,” Shakespeare said. “Then tell me your story, sir.”
Rebecca smiled again, then giggled. “My cousins were always able to emit such loud and resonant belches. Of course, they’d never do it in front of our elders, but alone in the stables…or in the hayloft.” She laughed and picked up her tankard, but Shakespeare placed his hand atop hers and lowered the vessel.
“Have some more mutton,” he said.
“My stomach feels the heat of the flesh,” Rebecca said, patting her doublet. “It desires a bath of ale.”
“Methinks it will drown if you pour any more down your gullet.”
“My innards, Shakespeare, are solely my responsibility,” she said, taking a sip of ale.
Shakespeare sighed.
“If I belch womanish,” she said with a sly smile, “how does Shakespeare belch in a manly fashion?”
“Shakespeare desires not to belch.”
“Ah, but his company desires it. And being the good man that he is, he has no option but to oblige his companion of superior title.”
Shakespeare whispered, “We are in public, sir.”
“Belches abound in places of drinking, and your fine tavern, Shakespeare, is no exception. Many a burp has punctuated the air like the stab of a quill at the end of a sentence.”
“We must exhibit knightly behavior if we are dressed as a knight, sir.”
“And how many sober gallants do you see in the room, good man?” Rebecca pouted. “Do show me how to belch.”
Shakespeare felt as if he were melting before her eyes. He was burning for her, and the beard and mustache did little to quench his fire. It was her eyes, her voice, her lips, her pout. She touched his hand and he felt himself go numb.
“I pray you, good man,” she said. “Instruct me in the finer points of belching.”
“Mis—Sir. For the sake of your honor, show restraint.”
Rebecca lowered her lashes and squeezed his hand. A flash of heat burst into his loins.
She said, “I pray you…Please?”
“Very well, if you insist.”
Rebecca clapped her hands with satisfaction. “Very good, my dear fellow. Now tell me.”
“The key to a manly belch is the ingestion of ale. It must be done all at once. That way air is trapped inside the gullet and can be easily expelled.”
“Pray, continue.”
Shakespeare raised his eyebrows, picked up his tankard, downed it in five consecutive swallows, then sat back in his chair. The burp that came out was deep and resonant.
Rebecca burst into laughter. She filled her tankard from the pitcher and said, “To your health and may God bless, good sir.” After the fifth swallow, she surfaced coughing, ale spewing from her nose and mouth.
Shakespeare slapped her on the back.
“Too fast,” he remarked.
“Aye?” she said, sputtering with laughter.
“You’ve sated the lungs.”
She cleared her throat, dried her eyes on her shirt-sleeve. “Mayhap I need another demonstration.”
“No,” Shakespeare said. “You need a walk.”
“Again, sir, I beg of you.”
Shakespeare sighed. It was useless to resist. She’d erode away his will like the tides to the cliffs. “For your pleasure, sir.”
His belch this time was louder than the first. Rebecca held her stomach and howled.
“I noticed the tempo with which you gulped,” she choked out between chortles. “As perfect as a drummer’s. And your pace…as steady as a plow horse.”
“Many thanks.” He stood up. “By your leave now, sir?”
“Nay,” Rebecca said, motioning him down. She brought the mug to her face and tilted the cup. Ale poured over her beard. She giggled, her head swimming in a gray fog.
“You’ve missed your mouth, sir,” said Shakespeare.
“Then I shall try again, good fellow.” She drank half the tankard in a series of rapid gulps, feeling afterward as bloated as an unmilked cow. She opened her mouth but nothing came out.
“You look ill, sir,” Shakespeare said.
Rebecca couldn’t answer.
“You’re awash in green hues,” he said.
“I need air,” she croaked out. Her stomach had started to buck. “Very quickly.”
Shakespeare stood. “A walk, then.”
Rebecca tried to stand, but her knees buckled. Shakespeare caug
ht her by the arm, left some coins on the table, and managed to get her outside. Gods, how heavy she’d become.
“Do you feel the need to empty your stomach?” Shakespeare asked her.
“Death is upon me,” she groaned.
“Breathe slowly.”
“Nay, tis too late.” She gulped, tried to hold down the contents of her stomach. “The otherworld is imminent.”
“You shall live to curse your waking, sir.”
“This is the end.”
Shakespeare jerked Rebecca onto her feet. “Try to walk.”
“All my dreams, squashed as an overripe plum—”
“Walk, sir.”
She fell against him.
“Come.” He hoisted her upright. “Look up at the trees.”
“My eyes see nothing but haze as life’s precious vapors are sucked from my weary body.”
“Open your eyes as wide as you’re able. Try to fix them to a sight in front of you.”
“I see only black,” Rebecca muttered.
“Aye. I said open your eyes.”
“I cannot.”
Shakespeare slapped her cheeks.
“I feel nothing,” she moaned. “This is it.”
“You’re thoroughly boozed.”
“At your behest,” Rebecca said, swooning. “You ply me with drink to extract the family secrets. But you succeeded not!”
“The room that I let is not far from here. You may sleep off your stupor there.”
“While you act the lewd one.”
“Base thoughts are far from my mind.”
“And why is that?” Rebecca burst into newfound giggles. She tripped and crashed into Shakespeare, nearly knocking him over. He shook his head, then hoisted her over his shoulder.
“What’re you doing?” Rebecca asked. Her words had come out a slur.
“Trying to remove you from harm’s way.”
“Down with me, sir!”
“In a minute.”
“Down,” she shouted. “I demand to be released to my own powers!”
“As you wish.”
He placed Rebecca on her feet and she immediately crumpled on the ground, contorting with laughter as if she were inflicted with falling sickness.
“As a man, you’re pathetic,” Shakespeare said. “But as a woman, you’re simply pitiable. Come. Let me help you…sir.”
Rebecca rolled onto her back and raised her arms. He yanked her to her feet and she threw her arms around his neck. Together they meandered their way to his closet, weaving in and out of the throngs, not a single person taking notice of another drunken knight.
The Quality of Mercy Page 24