The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  Rebecca didn’t answer.

  “Why, Becca? It’s ripping out my heart.”

  Rebecca said softly, “I grew up, Dunstan…. Try to understand, people change when they reach adulthood.”

  He didn’t answer her, and she felt his sadness in his silence. But there was nothing she could do for him. And other things weighed heavier upon her mind. She asked,

  “What will happen to Father?”

  Dunstan felt his belly suddenly tighten, his stomach burn in its juices. “Don’t worry. We’ll buy his freedom.”

  But his voice betrayed his lack of confidence.

  She bit her lip and held back the tears.

  Dunstan said, “So far as we could ascertain, neither Essex nor his spy master has definite proof of our dealings with the Spanish. He has acted solely on de Andrada’s word.”

  “Where is the verminous scum?”

  “De Gama, our Iberian spy, told us that he now resides in Amsterdam.”

  “Does de Andrada know of ‘David’?”

  “I suspect he does. How much I’m not certain. Speaking of what the enemy knows, exactly what does Shakespeare know?”

  “He knows not of David.”

  “Welladay,” Dunstan mocked. “The lady shows discretion.”

  “Your tongue is not the flesh of wit, Dunstan, merely acid.”

  “What a mouth you have.”

  “I had to confess our mission to him. I told you that.”

  “Your mother told you to tell him?”

  “Mother told me to take Miguel’s note to you. If I couldn’t do it alone, she told me to take Shakespeare for protection.”

  “I cannot believe that your mother told you to trust a Gentile.”

  “I made a choice. The proper one, I say. I listened to my heart.”

  “The heart is a foul organ.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “It’s an instrument most sweet if played by nimble fingers.”

  The road turned muddy, forcing the horses to slow their pace, the terrain dense with foliage as clusters of trees and brush thickened the grassy hillside. Nighttime shadows had begun to disappear as hints of dawn lightened the sky. But the air remained cold and Rebecca shivered. Dunstan wrapped her in his arms. She didn’t fight him off. Instead she took the reins of the horse and gave them a firm pull. “We’re falling behind Thomas and Shakespeare.”

  “They seemed to be deeply engaged in conversation. Perhaps they moan their mutual lack of facial hair.”

  “You taunt with no purpose, Dunstan,” Rebecca said. “One time you’ll bite hard into meat and find your teeth breaking on a bone.”

  “My oh my.”

  “Your brother is decent. And Shakespeare’s a most goodly and gentle man. Completely undeserving of the poison you gave him.”

  Dunstan said nothing.

  A moment later he said, “He’s almost thirty, Becca.”

  “Twenty-nine. Your age, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “His head is practically smooth—”

  “You exaggerate.”

  “He’s bald, Becca, and the hair on his chin equally as scant. What do you see in him?”

  She paused, then said, “A poet’s eternity.”

  Rebecca dreamed in the cradle of Dunstan’s arms, the steady beats of the horse’s hooves rocking her to sleep. Her mind was dark at first, then came the images—chains, racks, stocks, pilliwinks, whips. Her father’s body suspended from a noose, his face purpled and smooth, as shiny as an eggplant, his limbs being hacked from their sockets with cleavers—blood bursting with each whack of the ax.

  Then came the screams. Once they started, they wouldn’t stop.

  Shakespeare and Thomas galloped over to Dunstan.

  “What’s wrong?” Shakespeare asked. “Is she hurt?”

  “She’s having a nightmare,” Dunstan said, firmly shaking her shoulders. “I seem not able to rouse her.”

  “The events have proven too much for her,” Shakespeare said, dismounting.

  “Becca, wake up,” pleaded Dunstan.

  “Hand her to me,” Shakespeare said to Dunstan.

  Dunstan gripped her waist and swung her off the saddle, her arms and legs flailing about. Shakespeare gently lowered her to the ground. Dunstan dismounted.

  She moaned, “My God, no, no, no!”

  “Wake up, Becca,” Dunstan shouted, holding her face in his hands. He’d turned pale. “Wake up, damn it!”

  “What did you say to her to upset her?” Thomas said.

  “Nothing,” Dunstan said, eyes darting between Thomas and Shakespeare. “She was well before she fell asleep.”

  “I’ll get some wine,” Thomas said.

  Shakespeare rocked her in his arms as she wailed.

  Thomas handed Shakespeare his gourd.

  “Drink, my love.” Shakespeare brought the mouthpiece to her lips. “Let the wine wash away the poison from your mind.”

  “Stop!” she groaned. “I beg you to stop! Have mercy on his soul.”

  “Becca,” Thomas said, gently slapping her face. “My God, what’ll we do?”

  Again Shakespeare brought the gourd to her mouth. He whispered, “Drink, sweet lady of my heart. How I love thee.”

  Rebecca stopped screaming.

  “Drink.”

  Her eyes opened.

  “Praise be God,” Shakespeare said. “Good morrow, Becca. Catch your breath. You’re safe.”

  She felt herself panting, and inhaled deeply. The air was bracing, scented with spicy aromatics from decaying foliage—a whiff of chilled incense.

  “Dunstan?” she called out.

  “I’m here, Becca,” he said, kneeling at her side. He stretched out his arms and she slid into his embrace. He smiled smugly at Shakespeare.

  Rebecca hugged Dunstan tightly.

  “Calm, my sweet,” said Dunstan. He stroked her hair.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly two in the afternoon.”

  “What happened to the dawn? The morning?”

  “You’ve been asleep, my little one.”

  She suddenly bolted up. “Willy?”

  “Here,” Shakespeare said.

  She broke away from Dunstan and jumped into Shakespeare’s arms, buried her head in his chest. It was Shakespeare’s turn to grin. Dunstan frowned, then despite himself, let out a laugh. Shakespeare joined him. He said,

  “Two cocks preening and pecking for the hen.”

  “Ah, but what a hen!” Dunstan said.

  Rebecca looked up at Shakespeare, at her surroundings. They sat in a glade—a circular clearing surrounded by mossy green yews and boxwoods, tall skeletal beeches and the twisted boughs of leafless oaks. The smell of winter, the rustle of wind, the distant sounds of woodland denizens scampering through the fallen leaves. Bright parallel rays of light crisscrossed through the branches and spotlighted the ground—a lattice of sunbeams.

  “My God,” Rebecca whispered. “I’m so confused.”

  Shakespeare offered her the gourd once more. She took a sip of icy, sweet wine, felt it soothe her parched throat.

  “I’ll tie the horses,” said Thomas. “The dinner hour has long since past. Time we’ve taken a stomach.”

  “My sweet Will,” she said. Her voice was breathy. “You’re still here.”

  “Of course I’m here.”

  “I dreamt you’d deserted me because I was a Jew—”

  “I’m here, Becca.”

  Thomas offered her a slab of salted beef. She shook her head.

  “You must eat,” insisted Dunstan. “You’ll need your strength for the ordeal to come.”

  Rebecca took the meat, nibbled on the corner. It was full of pepper and made her tongue tingle. She took the gourd and gulped a healthy swallow of wine.

  “Not too much at one time,” Shakespeare said. Then he whispered, “Or hast thou forgotten thy limitations in the art of quaffing?”

  She smiled and snuggled deeper in Shakespeare’s grasp, played with his wispy mustache.
“How good it is to be awake,” she said. “What a horrible dream I had.”

  Dunstan said, “You’ve been under much tension—”

  “I dreamt that Father was arrested,” she interrupted him. “Tortured by screaming mobs of…” Her voice trailed off. “Isn’t that absurd!”

  The men said nothing, eyed each other.

  Thomas finally said, “Drink, Becca.”

  “Isn’t it?” she said with desperation.

  “Isn’t it what, Becca?” asked Dunstan.

  “Absurd! Absurd! Absurd that Father, the Queen’s confidant and physician, was arrested!”

  Her voice was filled with pain. No one answered, and the silence became suffocating. Tears suddenly poured over Rebecca’s lower eyelids, overflowed onto her cheeks.

  Once they started, they couldn’t stop.

  Chapter 35

  The journey to Dover proved speedy and uneventful—a brief stopover in Denham at the Oxtail Inn, six hours of blissful sleep, then back on the highways. Head bowed low, Rebecca said little for the duration of the ride, never initiating conversation, responding to questions with one-word answers or small shrugs. No amount of cheer, teasing, or cajoling could cast light upon her darkened mood. Her eyes remained fixed on the road, dull and sunken, her mouth was slack, her lips ashen and chapped from exposure. Her hands were always cold and trembled slightly. “Are you sure you’re well?” Dunstan had repeatedly asked.

  A nod.

  “Shakespeare could take you home if the journey is too strenuous for you.”

  A shrug.

  Then nothing.

  It drove Dunstan mad. Rebecca had many facets to her character, but never a still tongue. He grew tired of speaking, hearing his own voice ring in his ears, and after hours of endless one-way conversations, he gave up and rode with Thomas and the player. He quarreled constantly with his brother, with Shakespeare as well. The player wasn’t an evil sort, but his presence was an intrusion, an insult. Dunstan resented his quick wit, the facility of his verbal riposte. The player never complained, ate sparingly, drank moderately, and happily shared his provisions with the brothers. Dunstan hated the man’s honesty and didn’t trust him a whit. But more than anything, he resented Rebecca’s love for him.

  But even Shakespeare, with all his clever words, had failed to bring a smile to Rebecca’s lips. She sank deeper and deeper, struggling to keep afloat in a dark foreboding sea of gloom. Only once had she surfaced for air—reached out for Dunstan’s hand. She allowed him to squeeze the delicate fingers housed in warm, woolen gloves, allowed him to kiss the back of her hand. Even though Dunstan realized he was playing the beggar, the starving mutt groveling at her feet, he still found solace in her gesture.

  By the noon hour they reached the southeast corner of England—Invaders Gate to Britain—a small snip of land with a thousand-year history of marauding. First were the Celts; they were overtaken, slaughtered by mighty Caesar and his legions. The Romans camped the land for four hundred years. When the Empire fell to ashes, so did its outposts. The troops were brought home, making way for hordes of Angles and Saxons. Then came the Vikings to plunder, then the Normans. Each new inhabitant frantically threw up defenses, armories of the land—stone walls piled upon older stone fortifications. Henry the Eighth brought in the cannons that poised the coastline, the barrels pointing outward—hundreds of black eyes looking down upon diamond-studded sea.

  But God, in His infinite power, had provided His land with the finest of shields. The cliffs of Dover sprang from the loamy coast as if planted from Olympian seed—a cloud-high treacherous wall of undulating oyster-colored rock. The Almighty’s wondrous sculpture, blinding white as it reflected the rays of midday sun. Rebecca squinted, her eyes watering fiercely from gaping at the rock. Riding atop the cliffs, she had felt inordinately large. But now, trudging through sand, an ant at the foot of the mountains, never had she been so aware of her insignificance.

  Thomas halted his horse and signaled for the others to stop as well. He pointed upward and said,

  “There’s an inn called the Flounder about two miles yonder.” He had to shout above the roar of tide. Sea spray stung his nostrils. “They’ll stable the horses for us at a halfpence each per night. As I recall, a room lets for a shilling sixpence, not including board. You two ride there with Becca and get her settled while I assess the situation with Miguel. As soon as I know something, I’ll report back. If you don’t hear from me for let us say, four hours, come out and search.”

  Shakespeare nodded. Dunstan said to Rebecca, “Don’t leave the room once we’ve departed, not even to eat. We’ve packed your bag with much to fill your stomach.”

  “Too much,” Rebecca said. “I’ll not eat half of what you’ve given me. Mayhap you’d be better off taking some of the food. Strenuous work can make a man grow ravenous.”

  “Take all that we’ve packed,” Thomas said. “We don’t know how long we’ll be gone. Better you should be provided for excessively than to grow hungry awaiting our return.”

  “And don’t speak in your natural voice, Becca,” Dunstan said. “It’s higher pitched than that of a proper man.”

  Shakespeare said, “If you must converse, speak in a raspy whisper. Claim you have a chill in your throat.”

  “I’ll be a convincing man,” Rebecca said. She felt herself coming to life.

  “Check on the horses regularly,” Thomas said.

  Rebecca said, “Don’t worry about me or the animals. Just find Miguel.”

  Thomas said, “I’m off to locate Miguel’s galleon. I’ll meet you at the Flounder as soon as I can. Then we shall make our plans.”

  So fine it was to settle, Rebecca thought as she dropped her bags onto the floor of their rented chamber. The cell was large but unadorned—bare plaster walls, a fireplace fashioned from hewn stone, two floor-candle sconces, and a straw mattress on a poster bed. To the left of the bed was a rough-cut wood trestle table on which rested an hourglass, a folded woolen blanket, a bowl, and a pitcher of water. All the basics. The floor held clean rushes, Rebecca noted with pleasure, enough room for all of them to sleep comfortably. A fire had been started inside the hearth, and the air inside was as dry and warm as a clay oven. Without speaking, she stretched out in front of the fire and fell into a deep sleep.

  She awoke an hour later, according to the hourglass. The others were sleeping soundly—Shakespeare at her left, Dunstan on the bed, snoring. Thomas hadn’t returned. She closed her eyes and horrible images began to dance in her brain. She woke up a half hour later drenched in sweat, stood and began to pace.

  Where was Thomas?

  She marched back and forth, each step fueling her with fear. She paced for an hour, until she had grown mad with worry, until Dunstan thought her legs would cave in.

  “Sit down, Becca,” he said sleepily. “You’re bothering me.”

  She paid him no heed, and regarded Shakespeare curled up in front of the fire. She thought he was asleep, but he suddenly opened his eyes. He smiled at her, stretched out his hand.

  “Do sit, my love,” he said. “You’re tiring your legs, and all your pacing will have no effect on the outcome.”

  She said, “I cannot wait any longer.”

  “You may not have to,” Dunstan said. “I hear footsteps. Shakespeare, get the door.”

  A moment later a winded Thomas burst into the room.

  “What news, cousin?” asked Becca.

  “Let him first catch his breath,” Shakespeare said.

  “Becca, get him a pot of ale,” Dunstan ordered. To his brother he said, “Pray, rest on the bed.”

  Thomas shook his head. He held his stomach and continued to pant. Finally he said, “The San Pedro cast off early this morning back to Genoa. Not a sign of Miguel or any of the stowaways anywhere…”

  Dear God, Rebecca thought. The worst has happened. She rummaged through the bags, found a gourd filled with ale and gave it to Thomas. Nodding appreciation, he gulped, then said,

  “I
found Miguel’s horse, stabled not quite a mile from here. The innkeeper who let him space said he’d last spoken to Miguel three days ago. At that time he was well.”

  “You are certain he’s on the ship?” Dunstan asked.

  “Where else could he be?” Thomas answered.

  “He could have been murdered by the Spanish and dumped asea,” Dunstan said.

  Rebecca gasped.

  Shakespeare said, “Let’s be positive. Assume he’s alive, but a prisoner.”

  “My assumption,” Thomas said. He felt his lungs slowing down, fatigue seeping into his bones. “We must go after Miguel. But no ships awaiting to cast off are headed in the direction of the San Pedro. And no boats available to hire either.”

  “What, then?” asked Dunstan.

  Three months ago the thought would have never entered Shakespeare’s brain. But three months ago he would have never considered himself a capable cheat, an expert thief and a convincing liar. Three months ago Shakespeare had been imprisoned by a madman. He’d come away a different person. He said,

  “The solution is simple. Pirate a boat.”

  The others looked at him.

  He shrugged, then added, “At night. Less chance of being caught.”

  “A possibility,” Thomas said.

  Dunstan had turned green at the thought. He said, “We’re going to catch a galleon with what? A rowboat? A cog?”

  “David killed Goliath with a slingshot,” Rebecca said.

  “Thank you, cousin, for that inspirational message,” Dunstan said.

  “What ails you, Dunstan?” Shakespeare said to him. “Is your stomach ill-suited for the rhythm of the sea?”

  Thomas smiled.

  “It’s ‘sir’ to you, player,” Dunstan snapped. “And my stomach is cast as a true man’s. Nothing affects my appetite.”

  “Except fear,” Thomas muttered.

  “Go fuck thyself,” Dunstan said to his brother.

  “Then why do you hesitate?” Rebecca asked Dunstan.

  Dunstan paused, then said, “Better one dead than four.”

  Thomas turned red with fury. “Miguel would do nothing less for you.”

  “Miguel is a more honorable person than I,” said Dunstan.