Mackering frowned. “Seven and a half,” he corrected.
Shakespeare said hoarsely, “Time races when hours are merrily spent.” He paused to take a deep breath. “You are no closer to finding your money than you were seven and a half weeks ago.”
“The man grows bold,” Mackering said. He brought the tip of his boot under Shakespeare’s ballocks and gave them a gentle prod. “Your manhood is pathetic,” he said.
At least it’s intact, Shakespeare thought. He said nothing.
Mackering threw him a pile of clean clothes and his boots and ordered Shakespeare to dress.
He couldn’t stand because his legs were too weak. He had to dress himself flat on his back, his movements slow and painful, his joints creaking whenever he bent. With great effort he slipped his hose over his legs, his round hose over his hips. Next the shirt and sleeves, his fingers clumsily tying up his points, an aglet jabbing his fingertip causing it to leak thin, watery blood. When he was garbed as best as he could, he pushed his body up into a sitting position, his legs extended in front of him.
Mackering continued standing. He said, “There is a tavern called the Topmast. It is one of my many alehouses. Gather my coins and go hence. Give them to a tapster there named Ignatius Plant within five days. If you do as I say, you may walk out of here and I guarantee you freedom to come and go unmolested by me and my men. But if you agree then disobey me—become the Welshman—you will be killed most grievously.”
Shakespeare was silent.
Mackering said, “What say you, Willyboy?”
“I’m wondering why you’re letting me go. Why you didn’t kill me.”
“For one thing, you have a great deal of my money.”
“You knew I was looking for you. You could have killed me before I began to steal from you.”
“True.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because despite what you think, I am a merciful god.” Mackering grinned. “You’ve provided me with much sport these past weeks, hearing you mumble and cry and shout like a Tom O’Bedlam. Yet I see you’ve remained sound of mind. I admire that, Shakespeare. The bull who gorges the master is allowed to go free.”
“Your word is my liberty?”
“Aye.”
“The honor of Judas.”
Mackering pouted. “You wound me with your jabs.”
“Would my words be lethal weapons.”
“I pay you no heed, petulant child,” Mackering said. “The bellman cries it three of the clock. You should make it to your chambers before the crow of the cock—even if weakness dictates you crawling home on your belly.”
“What happened to Harry Whitman?”
“Still back on dear Henry, eh?” Mackering laughed. “I’ve told you, Willyboy. We did not kill your Harry. And I don’t know who did.”
“You were one of the last people to see him alive.”
“But I wasn’t the last.”
Shakespeare believed him for one simple reason. If Mackering had killed Harry, the uprightman would have killed him a long time ago. Shakespeare said, “So you didn’t kill him, Mackering. But you cheated him.”
Mackering laughed. “In sooth, we did. Mudd and Lowe gulled him out of a few shillings. But your Harry was worth far more to me than what I could cozen from him with tricks.”
“In what way?”
“He had secrets, my friend,” Mackering said. “Dark secrets that he paid most handsomely for me to keep.”
“What kind of secrets?”
Mackering smiled wickedly and crossed himself. “Secrets between him—and a clandestine priest.”
So Mackering had found out that Harry had been a secret Papist. And Harry had been paying the uprightman extortion money to keep the secret. Shakespeare knew there had to be more. But what?
“How did you find out Whitman was a Papist?” he asked.
“He became whittled one evening at an inn called Fishhead’s, and the owner is a churl—a man claiming to be honest while selling his mother’s soul to the Devil for a groat.”
“Edgar Chambers.”
“You know the woodcock?”
“I’ve met him.”
“Then you know that he’s an idiot. He overheard Harry flaunting his…secret practices and traded me information for a dappled mare I rode.” Mackering grinned. “Poor animal. She turned sickly and died a month later.”
“Twas Chambers who forwarded me to you.”
“The boy is clever in a stupid sort of way,” Mackering said. “Something in the stars told him that you’d pester me, and he knew how much I misliked pestering. No doubt he thought I’d kill you.”
Shakespeare was silent a moment, his brain desperately trying to sort out the information Mackering had given him. He thought back to the beginning. His first encounter with the demon in black. The following day at the theater, Robin Hart told him that Mackering had tried to contact him. Shakespeare asked Mackering about the incident. The uprightman denied it was he.
“My first communication with you was through Pigsfeet,” Mackering said. “Someone wanted to lead you to me. It sounds like Chambers’s sort of scheme. If I were you, I’d go up North and find out what the jack has against you.”
Shakespeare said, “You’ve never crawled through my window and plied my drink with drug?”
“No.”
“Never threw a dagger at me as I dueled on the bridge?”
“Only madmen waste good weapons.”
“You never attacked my companion as sh—, he lay sleeping in my rented cell?”
“How cowardly!”
But someone did all those things. Someone wanted to stop his inquiry. He asked Mackering if Chambers had any reason to kill Whitman.
“None that I know of,” Mackering said. “I, for one, seriously doubt that Chambers killed Harry. Why incur my wrath? Harry paid me well to keep secrets. And Chambers knew that Harry was paying me well, as he told me the secret in the first place. I would have been quite piqued had Chambers killed your friend and suffered me financial loss. As you well know, my money is dear to my heart.”
Mackering held the tip of the sword in one hand, its handle in the other. He bent the blade into an arch.
“I questioned Chambers after your dear friend died,” Mackering said. He let go of the tip and the blade sprang upward. “Though the man is an inveterate liar, I am of the opinion that he spake honestly when he said he did not kill Whitman.”
“Then who killed him?”
Mackering smiled. “I told you, Willy. I know not. Now go you hence before my generosity withers.”
It took Shakespeare ten minutes before he could stand. Another ten minutes before he could walk solidly. Mackering threw him his dagger and a gourd of ale. Twenty minutes later Shakespeare felt almost whole—still weak and shaky, but well enough to make it on his own.
“You’ll remember my coins, eh?” Mackering said.
Shakespeare said, “As soon as I give up the money, one of your men will kill me.”
“Such distrust,” Mackering said, clicking his tongue. “What are your options, Willyboy?”
“I have none.”
“Then trust me.”
“Trust an asp at my heart.”
“Not always do the fangs bear poison.”
Shakespeare paused, then said, “I’ll do as you’ve requested.”
“Commanded.”
“Commanded, then.” Shakespeare turned to leave.
“Willyboy,” Mackering said.
“Aye,” said Shakespeare, not bothering to face him.
Mackering said, “Whoever killed your Harry has dried up one of my best springs. I am most displeased about that.”
Shakespeare was puzzled. Mackering’s voice held much wrath and a pinch of sorrow as well.
“I know you will continue to look for your friend’s murderer,” Mackering went on. “If you find the jackass—this fiend—bring him to me. Together, we’ll do him in.”
Chapter 32
He’d lost half a season—or, rather, had spent it in endless hours. Summer had yielded gracefully to the cool nip of autumn’s air. The greens had withered and died, replaced by flora of gold and copper that glittered atop gnarled and spindly boughs and sailed through seas of soft wind. Gentle breezes rippled through canary fields of hay and alfalfa. Harvest time, the days filled with birthing what spring had conceived.
Michaelmas was but two weeks away.
Lady Summer gone.
Shakespeare had missed the gardens abloom with rainbow flowers, the perfume of the warm nights. He missed St. Peter’s Day and its barrels of fish, the bonfires, the summer dances and country fairs.
Though Shakespeare had filched coins from Mackering, the ruffian had stolen from him irreplaceable time.
But there was no sense dwelling in ruined castles. He praised God for his freedom, and when he was able to take long walks on two stable feet, he basked in the fireworks the sun performed for him twice a day. The dawn was cinders in a pit of charcoal sky that ignited into streaks of rose, lavender, and rust. Each morning a different painting, each time heaven’s palette faded, early hour colors forced to give obeisance to a great honeyed orb of fire that gilded the city wall. The spectacle was inversely repeated at dusk. God’s autumn—a world of angels, a world of gold.
Margaret Whitman poured Shakespeare another pot of ale, then sat down across from him. She ran knotted fingers through gray strands of unwashed hair. Gods, the woman had changed. As Harry’s wife she’d always seemed so strong and independent. But as his widow she seemed weak—beaten down by age and poverty. Shakespeare wondered how she was supporting herself and the children, but he wasn’t close enough to her to ask.
Her eyes searched his for comfort. God in heaven, Willy help me, they said. Give me something to live for. As much as Shakespeare felt her desperate need, beyond words of comfort, there was nothing he could do. He wasn’t Lazarus: he couldn’t raise the dead.
“I haven’t been much help, have I?” Margaret said.
“You’ve been wonderful, Margaret,” Shakespeare said. “Just seeing your face infuses me with spirit.” He paused, then said, “I pray you, indulge me a few more questions.”
“As many as you want, William,” Margaret said.
“This…” Shakespeare lowered his voice. “This Jesuit priest that Brithall hides—”
“Fra Silvera.”
“Aye, Silvera. How long had Harry known him?”
“I think Harry knew him all his life. He used to summer with his uncle quite frequently as a boy.”
“Yet Harry was not raised a Papist.”
“No. His parents were strict followers of the English Church. His uncle and aunt were obviously secret Papists.”
“And Harry’s parents didn’t mind their son associating with a Jesuit priest?”
“William, I don’t think they ever knew what Harry did at Brithall. His mother had eleven other children to worry about. I’m certain she was delirious with joy that there was one less mouth to feed.”
Shakespeare regarded her haggard face. The woman spoke beyond empathy, her mouth spoke from experience.
“Yet,” he said, “Harry told you about Fra Silvera.”
“Twas not out of choice,” Margaret said. “Several times I begged Harry to take me and the children up North, where the air was cleaner, cooler in the summer. Just for a week. I pleaded, cajoled, pouted, cried, yet Harry remained adamant in his refusal to take us to Brithall. I thought maybe he was ashamed of me, as I had come from lower stock than he. He assured me that wasn’t the reason for wanting us home in London. Finally he admitted his concern for my safety and confessed that his relatives up North harbored a Jesuit priest. He wanted not to endanger his family. He never thought by endangering himself, he also put the welfare of his family at risk. Of course, later he denied the priest. Claimed it was a joke.”
Bitterness had crept into her voice, turning it ugly.
“So you never ventured up there?” Shakespeare said.
“My husband said no. I did not go.”
“How often did Harry go up North?”
“Once a year, two weeks during the spring right before Mayday. You could construct a calendar by the regularity of his visits.”
“Why did he go, Margaret?”
“I never asked, he never said.”
“Did he ever mention Fra Silvera when he returned?”
“No, never. He just mentioned him that one time. Harry spoke much about the foliage at Brithall, little about the people.”
“And the burg of Hemsdale?”
“I never knew of its existence until you asked me questions about this innkeeper, Chambers.”
“Do you think it was possible that Harry was confessing his demons to this priest?”
“I know nothing about Harry’s demons. I never knew Harry very well. After speaking to you, I realize I knew him even less than I had thought. Harry and I lived as most husbands and wives—separate duties, seeing little of each other except at night.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “My God, how long ago those nights seem.”
She started to cry.
Shakespeare stood up, pulling Margaret to her feet and into an embrace.
“It will be a better day tomorrow,” he said.
“No,” she said. “Tomorrow will be as rotten as today.” She squeezed Shakespeare tightly. “Kiss me, Will. I need to feel something.” She threw her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth hungrily to hers. What followed next was frantic—fingers undoing points and buttons, hands exploring hot flesh, animalistic coupling. When the moment had passed, Margaret clawed at the rushes on the floor and sobbed. Shakespeare tried to hold her, but she recoiled at his touch. Nothing he could do or say would take away the pain or change the fact that she was an old widow with seven children to support.
He stood, dressed quickly, and took out a sovereign from his purse. Her eyes were upon him as he placed the coin upon the table. This time she didn’t refuse the money.
The bells of midnight had long since tolled, but Shakespeare lay wide-eyed on his pallet. So much to plan, so much to do. The North was bleak in winter—the wind furious, the chill its frosted companion. Harry’s dark secrets lay in the region like a corpse in a steel coffin. If Shakespeare was to make the journey, he’d best start out soon, before ice crystallized the air and tempests unleashed their howling rage.
Harry had paid money to Mackering, ostensibly to keep silent about Harry’s practices of worship. There had to be more to the story.
Shakespeare thought of Edgar Chambers in his well-lit room, merrily adding up his money, boastful, a self-satisfied smile on the young, snot-nosed face. The bastard had meant to lead Shakespeare to Mackering—to death—and God only knew why Mackering had saved him.
Why had he been freed?
Mackering’s last words rang in Shakespeare’s ears. His tone of voice. The ruffian had seemed glad that Shakespeare was continuing on his quest to find Harry’s murderer—as if Shakespeare’s vengeance were almost his own. He could only conclude that Mackering wanted Harry’s slayer found in order to enact his own punishment and that he, Shakespeare, was to be the guide to the killer.
Then why had Mackering imprisoned him, tried to break him? True, Shakespeare had in his possession money filched from Mackering’s men, but it was his impression that Mackering never intended to kill him, coins notwithstanding.
Mackering wanted to find out how much he knew about Harry’s murder.
Or Mackering just desired to toy with him, to exert his power, weaken his manhood.
&nbs
p; Caligula.
Shakespeare sighed. He wanted nothing more to do with the monstrous uprightman, had kept his word and given Mackering back his money. Mackering seemed to be keeping his promise as well. Since his release, Shakespeare had experienced no troubles from Mackering, and that was all that mattered to him. Would his liberty continue unbothered as he made new inquiries—possibly indicting inquiries?
Maybe, maybe not.
Many questions, few answers. In several days he’d leave for the North. His recovery had taken up most of fall and there was but a month left before God’s fury made travel impossible.
He closed his eyes, but sleep evaded him. Slowly, he rose and lit the wick of his candle. His neglected papers and quill lay upon his worktable like scorned lovers. It had been so long since he’d written. He sat down at his desk and uncapped his inkpot, but was interrupted by a frantic knock on his door.
Grabbing his dagger, he was astounded to hear Rebecca’s voice on the other side. Quickly, he unbolted the latch and opened the door.
She was dressed as a man, but the masculine garb did little to hide a thin face pale and frightened. Her hands were clasped together, but still they shook visibly. She entered his closet and Shakespeare shut the door behind her.
Immediately she hugged him, laid her cheeks wet with tears against his nightshirt. He seemed startled by the intensity of her embrace, but a moment later he was hugging her just as tightly. She wanted to melt inside his body, find refuge under his skin, be rocked to the rhythmic beat of his heart.
She knew that after what she’d done to him it was sheer gall to come like this. But there was no one else to turn to.
“What news, Becca?” Shakespeare whispered. “What evil portent has driven you to me?”
“I’m so scared,” was all she could answer. How should she begin? She felt Shakespeare trying to ease her into a chair, but she was too taut to sit. She sprang up and clutched him again. She spoke in clipped, rapid sentences.
“You must think me horrid! To come to you. Wretched and frightened. I discard you. Like muck. Then leech your skin when I’m in need.” She looked at him with red, swollen eyes. “I should have never bid you adieu. I should have defied the wishes of my elders…. I’m weak, William. If you’ll help me, I promise—”
The Quality of Mercy Page 34