The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  “I, more than anyone, knew what Harry had done for you. After all, twas I who was the recipient of his words on your behalf.” He lowered his voice an octave and orated, “‘Cuthbert! I demand that the number of Shakespeare’s lines be increased twofold. He’s wasted as a groom!…Cuthbert, Shakespeare has to live. He needs more money per book!…Cuthbert, Shakespeare must become a shareholder else you’ll find yourself looking for a replacement this afternoon.’ Gods, the man was as insufferable as Richard.”

  “Remember how your brother and Harry went at it?” Shakespeare said wistfully. “How the two of them could blow—like Joshua’s horn, their voices could bring down walls.”

  Cuthbert smiled. “Harry was the only person I knew whose voice could drown out Richard’s.”

  “Twas close.”

  “Very close.”

  Shakespeare sighed. “So you see why I have to follow my heart.”

  “Harry would not have approved of your quest,” Cuthbert said. “His ghost told you to let the dead rest in peace. Perhaps he was protecting you, warding you off of something dangerous. Listen to him.”

  “That was no ghost,” Shakespeare said. “Harry’s ghost would not have needed a blow to my head to stun my inquiries.”

  “Marry, then who was it?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “It could be anyone,” Cuthbert said.

  “Anyone who knew my connection with Harry, yes,” Shakespeare said.

  “Have you talked to Margaret about this?”

  “What for? I’ve found out nothing new. And why worry her? It was at her behest that I started looking into Harry’s death. If anything were to happen to me, she’d drown in a pool of remorse. As if her request is the reason I continue my quest. It is my will, not hers, that keeps me going.”

  “But as Harry’s wife, tis possible she could illuminate her husband’s relationship with this Chambers fellow.”

  “Margaret and I had already conversed upon the topic of Chambers when I arrived back in town from my first trek up North. She never heard of the innkeeper.”

  “So there you have it. Chambers is a prevaricator.”

  “All it means to me is that Harry, like most men, kept secrets from his wife.”

  “Did you ask Margaret why Harry had upon him so much money?”

  “Yes. She knows not the reason for that either.”

  “I state that Chambers was lying.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I state that Chambers was lying about Mackering as well.”

  Shakespeare shrugged. “A possibility. But I’ll know more about that after I’ve spoken with the rogue, which I mean to do. More ale, Cuthbert?”

  Chapter 28

  The coins were neatly stacked and categorized, a piece of vellum attached to each pile stating from which trick the coins had been attained and from whom they’d been filched. Shakespeare’s own purse had grown light of late and his eyes couldn’t resist the pull of the glittering columns of silver and gold. Aye, the money was tainted, obtained by connivery, yet stolen metal purchased goods as easily as the coins he’d earned from writing or acting.

  Pity the good and just. Let no man state that thievery didn’t pay. What amazed him was how simple the lifting had been. You wanted it, it was yours for the taking. Twas surprising that there remained any honest men when the rewards from knavery so greatly outweighed the risks of being caught.

  He’d done it all—cheated Mackering’s cutpurses, stolen coins from his beggars’ baskets, outfoxed his stews who had tried to rob him. He even sampled a few of the fairer ones, including Mackering’s own doxy, Mary Biddle. Shakespeare had smiled when he filched the clothes off of the hooker’s crome and cheated Mackering’s horse thieves. He even robbed merchandise from Mackering’s barn of stolen wares. Shakespeare had found out where Mackering hid his goods from a whore who was less than enamored of her master. And he had performed all his cheating in the light of day!

  Yes, the thieving had been easy, even humorous at times, but always he sensed hidden danger. Not from the constables or the watchmen—they didn’t bother him—but from a lurking black shadow waiting for him to lower his guard. His thoughts were not allowed to wander in public—a mixed blessing. He had to push aside images useful for future books and poetry, but at least his mind had been focused away from her!

  His tired eyes shifted from the coins to the book in front of him. Gods, he’d spent the entire night scribbling away, finishing two pages of verse for Lord Southampton and six hundred lines of prose—two and one-half scenes. The ideas had poured out—a gush of creativity that had been dammed back by daytime vigilance. He could barely decipher his own writing.

  All night he’d written, persevering past sunrise, past the breakfast hour. Like most of the men he knew, he never ate in the morning, the early repast being a sign of the weak or the infirm. Now the dinner hour was approaching, but his stomach would have to wait.

  Yawning, he rose from his desk and sank onto his pallet. He’d changed the straw yesterday, and the sweet, fresh aroma filled nostrils previously clogged by the smell of tallow. He closed his eyes. Sleep came swiftly but lasted not long enough. His heart was jolted awake by a rude banging at his door.

  “Patience,” Shakespeare shouted. He arose groggily. “Who comes?”

  The reply was muffled.

  Shakespeare grabbed his dagger, stepped to the side, and threw open the door.

  A boy walked in, a stylus held tightly in his hand. He was no more than fourteen, dressed in rags, dirty and thin. His eyes were wide with fright, his hands and bare arms caked with mud.

  “Sir?” he inquired.

  Shakespeare grasped him from behind and held a dagger at his neck.

  “Drop the skene, my bene cove. You’ve no need for it here.”

  The boy’s knife fell to the floor.

  “That’s good,” Shakespeare said. “You’re a messenger, a tumbler in your language.”

  The boy nodded.

  “For whom?”

  “Mackering.”

  “Your name?”

  “Pigsfeet.”

  Shakespeare looked down at the boy’s feet. His exposed toes rested on the soles of his open shoes like sausages on a platter. The fourth and fifth digits had been fused together. Shakespeare kicked the boy’s fallen dagger to the opposite side of the room, shut the door with his foot, then released the boy from his grip.

  “Sit on that chair.”

  Pigsfeet backed into the seat, unwilling to turn his back on Shakespeare. His saucer eyes crept around the room and landed on the pile of money. Shakespeare pulled up a chair and sat in front of him.

  “State your business.”

  “Me uprightman be wantin’ you to bing a wast with me.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere in London.”

  “London is a large city. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  The boy said nothing.

  “You have parents?” Shakespeare asked.

  “Taken by the plague,” said Pigsfeet. “Me aunt had me for a summer and a half till I ran away with a wench. She and I filched what we could in the day—and niggled greatly in the night.” He smiled with blackened teeth. “Then she dallied with Mackering. Now she’s his special doxy and I break into houses for the master—steal for him bread, milk, or bacon. Other things ifin I see them well.”

  He pointed to Shakespeare’s door.

  “I jiggled many a door, but the lock on yours is harder than rock,” he said with admiration. “Can I see the latch?”

  “No.”

  The boy sat back and sulked.

  “Hungry?” Shakespeare asked. He got up and threw the boy a piece of stale rye bread.

  Pigsfeet caught it. Gobbled it up in two bites.

  “Master doesn’t feed you too well, does he?” said Shakespeare.

  “He’s done good by me,” Pigsfeet answered warily.

  “D
id he tell you to break into my closet?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Aye, the money you found here was his to begin with,” said Shakespeare.

  “That’s what the master said,” Pigsfeet answered.

  “Where are you to take me?”

  “Have you any mess for me storming belly?”

  “I’ve a plum,” Shakespeare answered.

  “Where?”

  “Next to my pallet.”

  “Can I steal it?”

  “You can have it.”

  Shakespeare watched as the boy slowly rose. He took two steps in the direction of the pallet, then made a sudden dive for his dagger. Shakespeare was too quick. He grabbed the boy by his waist and flung him to the other side of the room. Pigsfeet crashed against the wall and crumpled.

  “You wound me, boy,” said Shakespeare.

  Pigsfeet groaned.

  “I offer you food and hospitality and you repay my kindness by trying to knife me. Such thanklessness. Tis most ungrateful.”

  The boy rolled over on his side, brought his knees to his chest and moaned. Shakespeare walked over, grabbed his collar and pulled him to his feet.

  “I’m a player, boy,” Shakespeare said. “Easily, I recognize a bad performance.”

  Pigsfeet frowned, straightened up and smirked.

  “In sooth, I’m insulted,” Shakespeare said. “You are who your master sends for an assassin? A boy as weak as a woman—”

  “I can knock you to the stars.”

  Shakespeare laughed and waved him away. “Be gone, boy. Out! Away! Bing a wast, as you might say. And don’t give me a surly frown. Be glad that I find you comical instead of menacing. Count your hap as good that you’ve escaped my ire as well as the ward at Newgate and the noose at Tyburn. Tell your master he’ll not see a groat of his money until he meets with me face to face. And tell him I’m keeping your dagger as a present, as we both know it was meant for me in the first place.”

  “I got some word to be saying,” Pigsfeet said.

  “Speak.”

  “If you want to view master Mackering face to face, then go to Cripplegate.”

  “When?”

  “Twelve of the clock in the heart of night,” Pigsfeet replied.

  “If your master doesn’t kill me, the constable will arrest me. Is that the scheme?”

  “The constable’s not a bother. He boozes at my master’s tavern. We give him lots of toys and a pisspot full of ale. It keeps his mouth from canting amok. He won’t be bothering you.”

  “Is that all Mackering has to say to me?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then get you gone,” Shakespeare said. “Tell your master I’ll see him hence. And Pigsfeet…”

  “Aye.”

  “Tell Mackering you’ve seen his money, his mint. Tell him you’ve seen piles and piles of coins sparkling in all their golden glory. Tell him also that I intend to stow his bits in a place most blind. If he wants his due payments, no harm’s to come to me. Understand?”

  “Aye, sir,” the boy answered, nodding his head. “I understand.”

  Shakespeare carried a dagger, though he knew it did him no good. He was a kite against a peregrine; the only thing that spoke in his behalf was hidden gold. The north side of the city was dusted coal black and vented with pinholes of starry light. Thus far he’d avoided the night watchman, two or three constables as well. He’d wrapped his boots in rags to muffle the sound of his steps.

  Shakespeare had always enjoyed this part of the city. The old monastic houses and cottages were set into gardens of fruit trees and flower beds—a rural oasis in a town of tenements. But tonight the buildings looked foreboding. He passed Moorgate silently, walking around the great wall built to protect the city from foreign invaders. The stone edifice had done little to save London from the Visigoths within.

  A flurry of movement up in the distance? No, only the whirls of summer’s wind. It was a gentle evening, perfect for a lover’s stroll. He imagined himself with Rebecca, her body resting under his arm like a hatchling nestled under its mother’s wing. He wished her well wherever she was, prayed to the Almighty to guard her from plague and strife, his wife and children as well.

  While he had the Great One’s attention, he added a word or two for his own keep. Alone he was, a small cog waiting for the impending tempest. He was being watched, stalked, decoyed for death.

  He continued toward Aldermanbury Street, past the Old Church of the Papy, the Church of All Hallows. Receding in the breeze was a drunken shout, the flicker of a muck-heap bonfire, the sound of hoofbeats.

  Then nothing.

  A few steps more before he was forced to stop.

  They were upon him like locusts descending from the skies. One grabbed his arm, another took his dagger, still another slipped off his boots—all at the same time. Without shoes he wasn’t going anywhere. It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust, and when they did, he counted about ten of them. They were garbed in tatters and covered with sores. A few were missing limbs, some lacked ears—state punishment given to those convicted of thievery. Tall ones, some bent. One was a dwarf; his neck bulged hideously. The knave who stood directly in front of him was a woman.

  She was too bony in the shoulders, but her loose bodice revealed an ample bosom. Her hair was loose, falling midway down her back. Her facial features would have been bonny had her eyes been softer. She smiled at him closemouthed. Nay, it wasn’t a smile, but an evil smirk.

  “What news, Mary Biddle?” Shakespeare said. “Though I knew you well, I knew you not with your clothes on.”

  She spat in his face.

  “Such distemperament!” Shakespeare said.

  She punched him in the groin.

  He gasped out, “Hell has no fury—”

  She kicked him in the shins. Tears stung his eyes.

  “Done with him, Mary?” asked the man who held Shakespeare’s arms. The man’s own left arm was amputated to the elbow, his forearm and hand replaced by an iron rod and hook. The other man who held Shakespeare was tall and fat. He wore a patch over his eye. His vision was goodly, thought Shakespeare. No doubt the patch was part of the livery of a sturdy beggar—a “reacher,” as they called themselves.

  “Nay, Hook,” Mary answered the amputee. “Not done with him yet.” She began to slip metal rings over her knuckles.

  Shakespeare saw the look in her eye—the gleam of the moonstruck. He knew she meant to break him. But he’d rather be damned than show fear before a whore. He said, “The doxy remembers a man not easily sated, eh? Yet you moaned quite pleasantly during the rutting.”

  “I woulda said nothing ifin you only fucked me for free,” Mary said. “But you stole my purse, you scum! Caused me evil with the master.”

  “That was justice speaking, wench,” Shakespeare answered. “You filched my purse when you thought I was sleeping. In sooth, I took back what was mine…and a few bits more from yours for the inconvenience suffered at your hands.”

  “Know what Master Mackering did to me because of you?” she screamed.

  “I warrant it wasn’t pleasant.”

  She gave him a full smile this time. Both front teeth were missing now.

  “Regard it with humor,” said Shakespeare. “Never shall those teeth inflict thee with pain.”

  She grinned menacingly. Shakespeare’s instinct was to try and jerk free, but he forced himself to remain still. He winced slightly as she pulled back her fist, now shining with silver. She smacked him in the mouth. His head vibrated with pain, his eyes rolled backward. His vision burst into thousands of droplets of light. A warm, wet stream gushed from his nose and mouth. The night blackened into nothingness.

  “Speak pretty words now, you malapert patch,” Mary said, blowing on her stinging hand.

  “He’s out,” said Hook.

  But Shakespeare wasn’t. He could hear them speak even as his head throbbed.

  The voice of the patch-eyed man said, “The master’ll not be in good humor o
ver this. He wanted no marks on the cove’s body.”

  Mary said, “Stow it, Patch. I’ll say that Shakespeare was asking for the bobbing. And none of ye will say nothing against me, eh?”

  They all agreed.

  “Looks like you killed him,” said Hook.

  “Bah,” Mary answered. “He breathes. Bring the cove some booze and pour it in his mouth. Ifin that doesn’t do the trick, nothing’s able.”

  Shakespeare smelled something medicinal and pungent. A moment later he felt his mouth being pried open, something vile being poured down his gullet. He sputtered and coughed.

  “Hit his back, Little Dickie,” Mary ordered the dwarf. She added with a chuckle, “Ifin you can reach it.”

  Little Dickie jumped up and pounded him between the shoulder blades. Shakespeare moaned.

  “Open your eyes, lout,” said Mary. “Yer still among the living.”

  Shakespeare felt his knees buckling under his weight.

  “Hold him up,” Mary barked. She held up her fist, still decked with metal rings, and slowly extended it toward Shakespeare’s bloody mouth. He jerked back, wrestling in the iron grip of the knaves.

  “Where’d you hide the master’s bits?” she asked.

  Shakespeare said nothing.

  Mary withdrew her hand.

  “Where’s the money, Willy boy?”

  Again Shakespeare remained silent. Mary clucked her tongue.

  “We’re not learning you proper, I can see that.” She shrugged, pulled back her studded hand and fisted Shakespeare hard in the stomach.

  This time his brain went black.

  “Yer gonna kill him, Mary,” said Hook.

  “The master’ll not be pleased,” warned Little Dickie.

  Mary splashed the spirits in Shakespeare’s face. “Arise, jack.”

  Shakespeare opened his eyes. His face felt puffy, his nose seared with pain.

  “Anything to say, dolt?” Mary asked.

  Shakespeare smiled groggily—a lopsided smile. He slurred out: “The stew thinks herself Huffing Kate.”

  Mary spat at him.

  “Hit…me again,” gasped Shakespeare, “and…no…money shall Mackering see.”