The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  “Aye, I lie, sir,” Picker said, struggling under Shakespeare’s grip.

  “Yes, you lie, Picker, out of habit. None of that. We must have a meeting of the minds. Teeth is here in Smithfield today?”

  “Aye.”

  “Who else?”

  “Only Teeth.”

  Shakespeare raised his arm upward until the cheat’s wrist rested against the crown of his scruffy head.

  “One good shove and the bone is broken.”

  “I swear on my mother’s grave that only Teeth and I work the field today!”

  “No doubt your mother is very much alive, eh? Know you, scoundrel, what God does to those who swear falsely?”

  Picker didn’t answer.

  “Aye, soon enough you’ll find out. But worry not, as you’ll not be done in by my hand.” Shakespeare walked Picker over to a large, conical haystack, near a pen of horses but away from the crowd. “Of course, I’ll still have to rob you and tie you up lest you tell your cousin Teeth that I’m after him. Nothing personal. What transpired betwixt you and me was naught but business. And since the money stays not in your purse anyway, consider me a thief of Mackering, not of you.”

  “Who are you?” asked Picker in a whisper.

  “You may tell your supreme ruffler that he was lifted by William Shakespeare, who most urgently desires an audience with him. I regret the inconvenience I’ve caused you, Picker, but your master is an impossible man to locate. Like the wood beetle, you never really see him, only the damage he’s done. Now scream if you will, man, but know that I’ve learned the name of the man you gulled. I’m sure Master Grey would love dearly to know yours in a day or two.”

  Picker was silent.

  “Good,” Shakespeare said, pulling some leather thongs from his belt. He bound Picker’s hands and feet securely, and when he was done, he smiled at the jiggler and took his money. Wishing him a good morrow, Shakespeare buried him lightly in the pile of hay and went off in search of Teeth.

  The crowd was packed, people pressed upon one another until it seemed that the penned livestock had more room to move than those who inspected the pens. Wary of the cutpurse, Shakespeare untied his purse from his belt and clutched it in his hand. He passed a fat sow rolling in the cool mud of her sty, squealing and snuffling with delight. Her tiny eyes met his and her thick-whiskered snout seemed to turn upward in a tease of a smile.

  Who’s mocking whom?

  A hopeless task it was to locate Teeth.

  Shakespeare swam through the sea of buyers, searching in vain for a tall, thin man with a black cloak, green doublet, and brown round hose and stockings. He found a tall, fat man wearing a green doublet and black hose who turned out to be a German count. He spied a small, thin man wearing a brown cloak, a green doublet, and brown hose who was a clerk from the Chancery.

  An hour passed. No sign of Teeth. Shakespeare pressed on, searching for Teeth while witnessing the free entertainment about him. He saw numerous pickpockets perform their trade, overheard heated words between two drunken knights which eventually led to a slow-footed brawl. He received numerous bawdy looks from stews and debated boarding a sweet-looking wench with chestnut curls. After a moment of thought, he declined her lewd offers of pleasure and forced himself to think of Harry. He doubled his efforts—pushed his way through the crowd, looking for Teeth, for a shadow as well.

  Two hours into the search he felt a sudden heat on the back of his neck, an invisible force that filled his body with fire.

  He spun around.

  Rebecca!

  Quickly she lowered her eyes, and a second later was lost in the crowd.

  He charged in her direction, parting a pathway through the mob as if he were clearing overgrown woodlands.

  She was gone.

  Damn his luck!

  He walked a few more steps, then turned to his right.

  Her eyes again, staring at him from afar.

  History repeated.

  Where can we meet? he mouthed to her.

  She shook her head no and turned her back to him.

  At Rebecca’s side was a tall, muscular man. His face was strong and God had blessed him with a hat of ebony ringlets. She placed her hand gently on his arm, leaned over and whispered something to him. He laughed.

  Was this her sodomite fiancé, this handsome man who stood erect, muscles that seemed to be sculpted from stone? Had she mocked him with a tale that was no more than a bundle of lies, gleefully laughing as she versed away his love?

  Shakespeare felt his heart go slack, his fingers go numb. An immediate chill doused a fire that only a moment ago had burned uncontrollably, leaving in its wake smoke and ashes.

  Rebecca’s father—the doctor—appeared. He led the couple over to a splendid white mare and hoisted Rebecca atop the horse. There she sat, the cold queen upon a throne of white velvet, subjugating his heart without a tear of mercy. Shakespeare felt himself weak with desire to hold her. She met his eyes, her bottom lip trembling slightly.

  Meet me, he mouthed in desperation.

  Again she shook her head no and lowered her gaze to her feet.

  Damn her to the Devil!

  Shakespeare turned and walked away, his weakened knees barely able to hold his weight. He tried to erase her face from his mind. To concentrate on Teeth.

  It was useless. His brain, like a homing pigeon, returned to her—her vows of love, the satin touch of her lips, the taste of her tears. After thirty minutes of aimless wandering, he found himself near the sow who had taunted him earlier. He sank down on the ground next to her.

  Move over, pig. Willy’s coming in to join you.

  He covered his face, hot tears of shame burning his eyes. He felt a tap on his shoulder and jumped upward.

  “Stop following me,” Rebecca said angrily. “I’m not to see you ever again. If my father catches me talking to you, I’ll never have his trust again.”

  “I didn’t follow you,” Shakespeare said.

  “Aye, you’re here by coincidence,” she said. Her voice was caustic. “I hear well-rhythmed knocks on my window at night, Willy. Are those coincidences as well?”

  Such cruel words. Shakespeare felt a sudden burst of anger explode inside of him.

  “I fully confess that the knocking was mine, Becca. But I did not follow you here.”

  “You just happened to pick today to shop for a horse?”

  “I have my reasons for being here. They don’t concern you, mistress.”

  “You lie, Will.”

  “It’s Shakespeare to you, and not a word of falsehood have I spoken.”

  “You followed me here,” Rebecca insisted. “Just as you pursued me the day of our duel.”

  Shakespeare looked at her, her cheeks red and moist. There was no point in exhuming what was dead. He started to walk away. Rebecca grabbed his sleeve.

  “Then what are you doing here?” she asked.

  Shakespeare regarded her hand clutching his sleeve. Embarrassed, she pulled her hand away. They stared at each other. Shakespeare finally asked,

  “What are you doing here?”

  “My betrothed and I met my father at St. Bartholomew’s at the noon hour. He had finished his daily ministrations on the wards and suggested a walk about Smithfield. I think Father intends to buy us a horse as an engagement gift. My God, Willy, if he sees you here—talking to me—I can’t see you anymore.”

  “You’ve made that clear…in actions as well as words.”

  “Oh, stop being so calm,” she said. She started to cry. “My God, if he catches me with you—”

  Shakespeare pulled her to his breast. She threw her arms around his neck. They hugged, kissed with newfound passion.

  “No,” Rebecca said, breaking away from his embrace. “I must go.”

  “Come away with me,” Shakespeare said, holding her arms.

  Rebecca looked at him. “What?”

  Shakespeare suddenly realized what he had blurted out, realized what it entailed. The winds of love were
pushing him into uncharted lands. But oh how sweet was the sailing.

  “I can’t do that,” Rebecca said.

  “Aye, thou canst,” he insisted. “Together we’ll build what neither can attain alone.”

  “I can’t come with thee…My God, my father—”

  “Where are he and…” Shakespeare rotated his hand in the air.

  “Miguel,” said Rebecca.

  “Yes, Miguel. Where are they?”

  “I’ve supposedly lost them in the crowd. I must go and search for them. Please don’t ever try to see me again.”

  Shakespeare said, “And those are your parting words? You sought me out to crush my heart?”

  “I erred to seek you out from the start.”

  Shakespeare exclaimed, “You swore undying love for me. Was it just empty flattery?”

  “No,” Rebecca said. She clutched his hands. “No. Not at all. I loved thee, love thee still. But what hope have we for lifelong love, me with my betrothed, thee with a wife. Is it thy intention to divorce her, disown thy children?”

  Shakespeare felt a lump form in his throat. He kissed her hands, brought them to his face. “If God had given me the power to foretell the future, I would have reserved my heart for thee. But He keeps it his private possession. I’d sell my soul to Lord Satan himself if he would reverse the passage of passed moons!”

  “Don’t say that!”

  Shakespeare said, “I love thee.”

  “I love thee as well,” Rebecca said. “But love as we do, there’s no future for us.”

  Shakespeare knew she was right. There was an order to life. To upset God’s plans could only bring upon them dire tragedy. He hugged her fiercely, smothered her face with kisses.

  “Nothing I’d say could change thy mind, eh?”

  “Nothing,” Rebecca said.

  “Pray, just think about it—”

  “No, Willy. It is not ordained.” She kissed him. “Yet I know I will always love thee. And I wish thee happiness. Pray, give me thy blessing. It would mean so much to me.”

  Shakespeare waited a moment, then said softly, “Go to Miguel. Make for him a good and dutiful wife. I wish thee a long…and fruitful…and happy life.”

  “I shall never forget thee,” Rebecca said.

  “Nor will I forget thee.” He released her from his arms. “Much hap I wish you, friend.”

  “You as well,” Rebecca said.

  Her voice was steady. Shakespeare turned his back on her. He waited a moment then glanced over his shoulder. She was gone. She never saw his tears.

  Chapter 27

  It appeared to Cuthbert Burbage that the beggar was approaching him. Quickly, he turned aside. Had times been plentiful, he would have been generous with his coins. But Black Death had emptied not only his purse, but the pockets of the fellowship as well. Gods, what a terrible spring it had been. The great Harry Whitman dead, the theaters again bolted shut, his brother Richard waxing on about the foul breath of London’s air. Cuthbert couldn’t wait to get out of the city. Take the books and the fellows on the roads and enjoy some clear vapors.

  He looked up and found himself face to face with the beggar.

  “Be gone,” Cuthbert said. It came out “be god.” His high-pitched, whiny voice had become muffled due to a stuffed nose. “I haven’t anything in my purse.” As if to illustrate the point, he opened his velvet sack and showed the empty lining to the pauper.

  “A pity,” said the vagabond. “I’ve an abundance of metal. Twas a fruitful day.” He reversed the pockets of his jerkin and out spilled two dozen silver coins. “Need you a groat?”

  The voice, Cuthbert thought.

  “Shakespeare?”

  “Waiting for me, Burbage?”

  “What—What are you doing in tatters? And where did you get all this money?”

  Shakespeare pointed to the ground and said,

  “I give you reason for this rhyme.

  I present to you offsprings of mother crime.”

  He bent down, picked up the coins from the road and glanced over his shoulder. Jerking his head toward his room, he said. “Upstairs…Nasty cold you have, my good man.”

  Burbage said, “Why in God’s name are you dressed—”

  “In private, my friend. All will be explained…of sorts.”

  They entered the tenement and climbed the stairs in silence. Shakespeare gave another quick look behind his back and unlocked the door. Cuthbert was about to enter, but Shakespeare held him back.

  “A moment,” he said. The player swung open the door and slowly let his eyes drift across his room. Satisfied that nothing was out of order, he stepped aside and allowed Cuthbert to cross the threshold. Burbage’s eyes rested on a peach sitting solo on the trestle table. Shakespeare picked it up and tossed it to him.

  “You look wan, Cuthbert,” he said. “Sit.”

  “It’s this blasted nose of mine. And I haven’t had much opportunity to eat today.”

  “I’ve fresh apricots as well,” Shakespeare said. “And some boiled beef from last night’s supper.” He placed a frothy mug of ale on the table and a trencher of meat. “Eat and drink. We’ve much time to exchange pleasantries and news.”

  “Let us forego the pleasantries,” Cuthbert said between bites of beef. He wiped his nose on his shirt-sleeve. “What news, Shakespeare? What mean you by attiring yourself in such garb?”

  Shakespeare placed the coins on the table then stripped himself naked to the waist, tossing his clothes onto his pallet. “I’m a player bereft of a stage,” he said. “So I practice my craft whenever I can on whomever I can. And a very convincing beggar I must have been, as even you did not recognize me until I spoke.”

  Cuthbert took three successive gulps of ale. “Aye, your ragged costume, your face embellished with sores, the pathetic limp in your walk…And what shall you say when the Queen’s men arrest you for vagrancy and put your head in the stocks? I was only playacting?”

  “Such lack of trust I’d expect from others, Cuthbert…but you? If I am to play the beggar, would not I be equipped with a beggar’s license?”

  “Where’d you get the license?”

  Shakespeare smiled cryptically.

  “You forged it, aye?” Cuthbert said.

  “A wizard never reveals the secrets of his arts.”

  “Willy, what in God’s name are you doing?”

  Shakespeare kicked off his toeless shoes. “First tell me what magical bell summoned you to my humble abode.”

  Cuthbert said, “I’ve fair news, my cousin.”

  “The Master of the Revels has reopened the theaters?”

  “No…not at all. How could he with London so riddled with death?”

  “Good news you say?” Shakespeare sat down opposite Cuthbert. “You must have arranged to take the fellowship on the road this summer.”

  “Fresh air, Willy. Open highways, the summer’s greenery in full blossom. And mayhap even a stop at Warwick to see the wife and the bairns.” Cuthbert smiled and poked Shakespeare in the ribs with his elbow. “Remove ourselves from the rancid stench of the city.”

  Shakespeare ran his finger through the coins. “My apologies, but fate dictates that I not join you.”

  Cuthbert frowned. “And why is that?”

  “I fall behind on my promised poem to Lord Southampton,” Shakespeare said. “I must poise myself, quill in hand, and finish the work for my benefactor. Since Black Death has been London’s constant companion for the last year, methinks Southampton will be buying my bread come the winter. I dare not peeve the young lord with tardiness.”

  “Then why do you playact a beggar instead of write?” Cuthbert challenged.

  Shakespeare thought a moment. “Atmosphere,” he said. “A good writer must sate himself with atmosphere.”

  “I must be missing something,” Cuthbert answered. “I see no connection between a beggar and Lucrece. She is the subject of your latest poem, is she not? Had you playacted the raped virgin, then I—being the si
mpleton—might have understood your point.”

  “And that is why God has made me the bookwriter and you the housekeeper. You see things much too literally.”

  “Are we to continue this mockery, Willy, or are you to tell me the truth?”

  Shakespeare spun a groat, watched it sparkle as it twirled until it fell flat on its face. “Had the theaters remained opened this past year, I wouldn’t have accepted Lord Southampton’s endowment. I would have made do as a player. But being greedy, in want of bread and meat, I took his money and owe him the best of my ability.”

  “You’ve always acted and written simultaneously…well, not simultaneously, but—”

  “A poem is different.”

  “Yet last year you wrote Venus and Adonis as we toured.”

  “Venus and Adonis was simplistic compared to Lucrece. The poem I pen now demands more commitment. More concentration.”

  “And your decision has nothing to do with Harry’s death?”

  “Why should it?”

  “I’m concerned for your welfare, Shakespeare. Everyone knows you seek out George Mackering, and he’s as sly and sharp-toothed a wolverine as ever there lived.”

  Shakespeare scooped up a handful of coins, let them fall like a silvery cascade onto the table. “He’s my only connection to Harry.”

  “What makes you think Mackering was involved? Because some jack innkeeper said it was such. How do you know this innkeeper—What was his name?”

  “Chambers.”

  “How do you know Chambers was speaking to you in earnest?”

  “Tis possible he lied in his throat.”

  “And his lie could lead you to unmentionable consequences at Mackering’s hands.”

  “I desire only a word with the ruffian. Surely there’s no harm in that.” But Shakespeare’s voice lacked conviction. “The very fact that Mackering has thus avoided my attempts for conversation leads me to believe that he was involved in Harry’s death.”

  “So your death will somehow avenge Harry’s?”

  Shakespeare pounded his fist on the table. “I’ve no room in my gut for fear or doubt, Cuthbert. I owe Henry Whitman his murderer’s head on the bridge!”