“Hand me not the gift of love wrapped in conditions, Becca. I gave you my blessings at our last encounter and I meant them truly. You had my pardon then, you have my help now. What frightens you so?”
Rebecca took a deep breath, then forcibly exhaled. She unfurled her fists and dropped her hands to her sides, leaving wet wrinkles in Shakespeare’s nightshirt. For the first time tonight, she studied Shakespeare’s face. It was so worn, so haggard. His eyes were tired and troubled. His tooth had been chipped.
“What misfortune has come to you, Willy?” Rebecca asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Your face…” She touched his cheek. “It’s so thin—”
“It’s nothing—”
“Not so,” Rebecca insisted. She grabbed his hands. “Tell me!”
“Your problem first, Becca,” Shakespeare said.
Rebecca didn’t answer him, continued to look at his eyes.
“Pray,” Shakespeare said, kissing her fingers. “Speak.”
“Very well.” Rebecca was drawn back to her present woes. She forced her voice to be calm. “The news concerns my father.” She tucked a loose strand of hair under her brother’s cap. “He’s…oh merciful God! He’s been arrested!”
There was a long moment of silence. Rebecca began to pace.
Shakespeare asked, “What are the charges?”
“I’m not certain. I overheard the words ‘conspiracy and sedition’ against the crown. None of it is true!”
Her face had turned even whiter. Shakespeare had never seen her so terrified. He asked, “When was he arrested?”
“Three hours ago. My uncles and brother left with him to plead his case to Sessions come the morning. We’ve dispatched word to my other uncle, the Duke of Mytilene—Oh Will, I’m terrified! Yet I shudder to burden you with my troubles after the way I’ve treated you.”
“I embrace your woes happily.”
“Oh my dearest, never would I have imposed upon you like this, but lives are at stake—not just my father’s, but another’s as well. Dear God, I have so much to tell you and the time passes too quickly…. Willy, my love, remember back to the day of our drinking?”
“Yes.”
“I told you I was of the old religion.”
“A Papist, aye.”
“I’m not a Papist. I…” She put her hand to her mouth, then removed it. “I follow older customs.”
Shakespeare looked at her quizzically.
“I’m a converso, Will. I am of Jewish blood. Though my family is outwardly Christian, we secretly retain many of our old Mosaic customs. If our practices were discovered and properly exploited by some wicked nobleman, we could be branded as Jews and deported according to the laws of the land.”
Shakespeare stared at her. “You’re a Jewess?”
Rebecca paused before she answered. “Yes,” she said. “I consider myself a Jewess.”
“But you were baptized into the Church of England, Becca,” Shakespeare said. “That makes you as Christian as I.”
She didn’t answer him.
Shakespeare said, “You were baptized, were you not?”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“It doesn’t matter?” cried Shakespeare. “God save your soul, for you know not what you say!”
Rebecca looked at him, seeing a different man. A Gentile loathing a Jew. Tears formed in her eyes. Her grandam had been right after all.
She said, “I was wrong to come here. Forgive my intrusion.”
Shakespeare grabbed her arm. “I pray you, tell me why you came?”
“What’s the use? I see in your eyes that you think me unclean and venal.”
“No, Becca,” Shakespeare said. “You misread me. I’m confused. I’ve never seen a Jew before, much less…loved one. Yet I did love thee, love thee still…” He sighed. “But now is not the time to sew the seams of a ripped heart. Tell me about your father.”
She broke away from his grip and began to walk in circles. “My father is a true prince among men.” She stopped, then said, “He was dreadful to you that day, Will. But he’s not really fashioned with so hot a temper.”
“I understand,” Shakespeare said.
“How do I make these confessions without you thinking him a traitor? I falter to find the proper words.”
“Speak. I’ll say nothing.”
Rebecca hesitated, then said, “My father was involved in a dangerous scheme. He was dealing covertly with His Majesty Philip the Second of Spain—”
“God’s blood!” Shakespeare blurted out. It was his turn to pace. “Your father deals secretly with the Spanish?”
“It’s not what it seems!”
“But what it appears, Becca. A Spanish…Jew who has secret trade with England’s foe. He should be torn apart limb by limb if it were known!”
“I know,” Rebecca said. Once again her eyes began to fill with tears. “But it’s not as you say. Father is not a traitor!”
“Then what was his business with Spain?”
“Business of the heart. My father was trying to free our people from the tryannies of the Inquisition. He was paying off His Majesty to close his eyes to the people we smuggle out of his land.”
“Secret Jews?” Shakespeare said.
“Aye, conversos like me. Converted Christians who practiced the old customs. Conversos who were previously warned by the Holy See to cease the ancient ways. These conversos, when caught, are considered relapsos and condemned to the stake.”
“Jews,” Shakespeare repeated.
“Yes, Jews,” Rebecca said. “We’re people, Willy. And like the baptized, we feel pain and scream when tortured.”
Shakespeare winced at the well-placed barb. He said, “I pray you to refrain from harsh speech…though I’ve given you reason.”
“I feel so alone.”
“And I’ve done nothing to comfort you,” Shakespeare said softly. “I’m so…surprised, Becca. There hasn’t been a Jew in the Isle for over three hundred years…. But pay me no heed. You stand in front of the drawn arrow, and tis cruel of me to quarrel with you. What can I do for my sweet Rebecca?”
She dried her eyes on her shirtsleeve and quickly said, “There lived in our house a certain weasel named Manuel de Andrada—an evil churl, a known liar and traitor. He was a spy for Don Antonio—the Pretender to the Throne of Portugal. He was in Don Antonio’s service when he met my father—my family. My father was Don Antonio’s physician. My father—as well as England—supported the Pretender in his attempted coup to free Portugal from Spain. Being a true and loyal man, Father continued supporting the Pretender even after the revolt failed—until Don Antonio had become completely daft, a lunatic muttering plots of revenge against the world.”
“Your father supported the overthrow of Philip in Portugal. Yet now he deals with Philip.”
“Gold is an excellent maker of truces,” said Rebecca. “My father first supported Don Antonio because the Pretender’s mother, Yolanda Gomez, was a Jewish conversa. Our people had hoped that some tolerance toward our beliefs would follow once Don Antonio wore the royal crown. But it never came to pass.”
“Go on,” said Shakespeare.
“Three weeks ago,” Rebecca said, “this cellar rat, de Andrada, defected from our household and departed for places and sanctuaries unknown. Methinks he sold family secrets to Essex—my father’s bitterest enemy. Lord Essex has wanted my father’s throat for many, many months, solely because Father opposes his War Party.”
“Spain doesn’t understand kindness, only its enemies’ strengths as witnessed by the Armada.”
“If Essex has his way, he shall lead England into war with Spain, costly battles that will strip the crown of its treasury—and all for his own glory. And if I may be so bold to speak, the lord has his own eye on Her Majesty—the crown itself. My father opposes war. He wants a stable England, a peaceful England—”
“And he wants to continue his negotiations with Philip for Jews, which is impossible
if the state is at open war?”
Rebecca folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t expect you to understand the gravity of his work, but at least know this. My father is not an agent for Philip! He is a faithful subject of the crown! His arrest—a creation of Essex—will be proven malicious as well as false.”
“Then what need have you of me?”
“You must help me save Miguel.”
She took a deep breath, then explained to him the mission. How her family paid Philip to turn his back on Jews—relapsos—stowed in ships docked in Spanish land, Jews subject to the Inquisition. The relapsos were condemned to death, the mission their only chance of survival.
Rebecca said in a shrill voice, “Oh my sweet Will, if you knew of the Holy See and its atrocities! How these relapsos suffer—women and children as well! My grandam, blessed am I to have such a goodly grandam, spent her teens in a blackened dungeon—raped, beaten, burned, drowned with water because she held different beliefs, because she didn’t eat the flesh of swine! Because she changed the linens on Friday! And for what?”
“Calm—”
“I will not be calm! Can’t you see the horrors of which I speak!”
“Hush! The thunder of your voice shall put us both in danger.”
Rebecca burst into tears, melting into Shakespeare’s open arms.
“You’re overcome with grief,” he said quietly.
“I have no time for grief.” But she sobbed as if grief were all she possessed. “I want my father!” she wailed.
“Catch the rhythm of your breath, Becca. You’ll become lightheaded if you gasp waves of choppy sea.”
“I love thee,” Rebecca cried out.
Shakespeare took her hand and kissed it. “I know well of torture, Becca. I pray, continue when you’re able.”
Rebecca wiped her salty cheeks. In a slow voice she explained to Shakespeare how the ships bearing the stowaways would sometimes dock in England. Once here, her family would aid those smuggled aboard. Miguel would steal onto the ships, present the stowaways with citizens’ papers that allowed them to live legally as Jews in the Low Countries.
“The papers were legal?” Shakespeare asked.
“Some were legal. When we couldn’t afford to buy them—Amsterdam often charged us exorbitant prices—my aunt, my mother, my cousins…and I would forge them.”
Shakespeare shook his head. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Miguel has not returned from his latest assignment,” Rebecca exclaimed. “I would have thought nothing of it—the length of his delay is not extraordinary—but since the arrest of my father, I’m worried that de Andrada has sold him to the Spanish. If Miguel is caught, he’ll be brought to trial in Spain under the jurisdiction of the Holy See. They’ll torture him to death…like the Star Chamber.” She shuddered. “I can’t bear…my God, I am weak without him!”
She started crying again, great tides of mournful sobs. At the mentioning of the Star Chamber, Shakespeare knew that though she talked of Miguel, her thoughts were with her father. At least with her betrothed, she could do something on his behalf. With her father she was pitifully helpless, her heart imprisoned with the man who had sired her. Filial love—a more powerful mover than the winds of heaven.
“Sweet lady of my heart,” Shakespeare said. “What dost thou want of me?”
“My cousins, Thomas and Dunstan, are on their way to Portsmouth to ascertain Miguel’s whereabouts. An hour after they left, I found a note amongst Miguel’s clothing, a scrap of paper with scribbling on it. Miguel often writes himself notes…lists. He’s very exacting. I found this one, along with several others, hidden in a doublet he left at my father’s home. But that’s irrelevant. What is important is that it mentioned the location of the ship. It was docked at Dover. Not Portsmouth, Dover.”
Rebecca grabbed her head. “I feel faint.”
“Sit,” Shakespeare ordered.
Rebecca complied. She said, “The plans must have been changed at the last minute and someone neglected to inform my cousins. I must meet up with them and tell them to go to Dover. But Willy, I’m weak, so scared to travel alone, afraid not for myself, but that I’ll fail to reach them, fail to reach Miguel and cause my betrothed harm. I need help, William. I need you to accompany me until I find my cousins. My uncles and brother are with my father; Miguel’s father is frantic with worry. My God, poor, poor Hector!”
Rebecca buried her head in her hands.
Shakespeare sighed, rubbed his chin. “You carry no bags, Becca. What preparations have you made for such an arduous journey?”
Rebecca knocked her forehead with her fist. “What an idiot God has made this stupid woman!”
“Worry not,” said Shakespeare. “I have all of what we require—completely packed and bundled, as the Fates would have it. Enough for just one to the North, but enough for two to travel the road south to Dover. How many horses did you bring?”
“Only one. A fine mare. She’s hidden outside the wall near Ludgate in a thick copse. I have her firmly tied and muzzled. I pray no one has discovered her.”
“We shall share her,” Shakespeare said. “How did you get through into the city? The gates close at nightfall.”
“England would do well to patch her armor. Many a crawl space dots her wall.”
Shakespeare dressed quickly. He threw Rebecca some rags and told her to tie them around the soles of her boots.
“Why?”
“They will muffle your steps.”
She nodded. When she was done, Shakespeare threw the bags over his shoulder.
“Leave us go,” he said.
Chapter 33
The night was moonless and cold. Rebecca shivered underneath her frieze cloak and wished she had dressed her head in a thicker hat. But at least her legs were warm, housed in double-knitted woolen hose. She flexed her gloved fingers, which had stiffened in the chill, covered her mouth and blew warm air onto her hands and nose. Shakespeare lit a small candle, the flame highlighting his profile in orange. Wisps of hot breath curled about his nose and mouth.
“Do you know the way back to your horse?” he whispered.
“Aye.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“How did you avoid the watchmen and the rogues?”
“Good hap.”
He took her hand and said, “Lead me.”
“I came by way of the Cheape,” she said. “The gap in the wall lies between Newgate and Ludgate. I suggest we bypass Paul’s. Too many vagabonds lie in wait.”
Their bootsteps were silent as they tiptoed past darkened buildings that occasionally winked the flicker of a rush candle, past boarded-up booths and shops and dusky taverns whose dim light escaped through red lattice sashes. Their eyes were of little use, their ears their best defense, listening for sounds that could mean attack or arrest.
“Where did you learn to muffle your steps with rags?” Rebecca asked.
“I was a clever boy.”
“A thief?”
“No,” he whispered. “Just a child who couldn’t sleep at night…I hear something.”
Rebecca listened.
“An owl,” they said in unison, looking upward.
It rested on the peak of a thatched roof, as still as the eaves upon which it sat. Its hood was marbled with brown and white, its eyes carved from onyx. Shakespeare and Rebecca exchanged glances. Owls were evil omens. The bird hooted again, blinked, then spread its massive wings and flew away, hopefully taking its bad luck with it.
“This way,” Rebecca said.
They walked a few more minutes in silence. Shakespeare stopped suddenly.
“I hear something,” he said.
“What?” Rebecca asked. “I hear nothing.”
“Muffled steps—like our own.”
“Where?”
“Quick, over here,” Shakespeare said, jerking her behind the thick trunk of an oak. He blew out the candle and they held their breath.
Th
ere were three of them afoot—robbers dressed in coal black. Shakespeare’s eye caught the glint of a foot-long dagger one of them gripped in his hand. The trio passed the tree without a second glance.
Rebecca let out a gush of air.
“My God, that was close,” she said.
“It was.” Shakespeare relit his candle. “Which way now, m’lady?”
Rebecca whispered, “I can’t walk, I’m shaking too hard. I’m so scared.”
“You’re dressed as a man, think like one as well. Though the dark frightens the piss from your body, admit it not.”
Rebecca smiled. She inhaled deeply and said, “This way.”
They walked another half mile. Rebecca felt her body being drawn to his. She inched closer until she was under the protective tent of his arm.
“I’m sorry I bid you adieu so abruptly,” she whispered. “Without explanation. Twas a cruel thing to do. But I did it for family loyalty.”
“It was best,” Shakespeare said. “For my family loyalty as well.”
“Did you summer with your wife and children?”
Shakespeare suddenly found himself swallowing back tears. “No.”
Rebecca heard sorrow in his voice and became quiet.
So dark, so still, so silent.
A minute later she seized his arm and brought him to a halt. “Listen,” she whispered. “The growl of a wild animal.”
Shakespeare answered. “I hear it, too, though the sound is weak in ferocity.”
“What shall we do?”
“Circumvent the noise. Can you lead us another way?”
“I’ll try, but I might become confused in the dark.”
Shakespeare paused, then said, “The growl has disappeared. I don’t hear it anymore.”
“Perhaps the beast has left,” suggested Rebecca. “No. Wait. Now I hear the growling once more, louder than before.”
“Wait here,” Shakespeare said.
“Where are you going?”
“Just do as I say.”
Shakespeare walked a few paces forward, stopped, then motioned her with his hand to approach.
The Quality of Mercy Page 35