“I’m a Jewess, Will,” Rebecca whispered.
“Thou art a lawful Christian,” Shakespeare said. “Thou wast baptized.”
Rebecca shook her head.
Shakespeare sighed. “No matter. Together we’ll both be baptized—anointed into the Church of Rome. What difference does it make how we worship, as long as we’re together?”
Rebecca said, “What of thy wife and children?”
Shakespeare whispered venemously, “Why dost thou lay stepping-stones in front of a blind man? I love thee and thought thou felt the same.”
“I do—”
“But not enough,” Shakespeare said.
“Thou asks me to become a Papist,” Rebecca said. “Dost thou lovest me enough to become a Jew?”
Shakespeare stared at her. “Why would thou wish such a curse upon me? A Jewess, thou art, but thy soul shall be saved by me, thy Christian husband!”
“I don’t want a Christian husband,” Rebecca said. “I want no husband at all!”
She gasped the minute the words were out of her mouth. Shakespeare dropped his arms to his sides.
“Then what am I to thee?” he asked. “A toy to be petted and fondled until novelty erodes and passion is spent? Am I then to be tossed aside?”
“No, Will,” Rebecca protested.
“I’m willing to give up everything I own for thee,” Shakespeare said. “Wilt thou do as much?”
“I don’t know…you must give me time to think.”
“How much time? An hour? A day? A year?”
“A year,” Rebecca said.
“After thou hast married Miguel, eh? And I noticed thou hast addressed me with a you. Is our intimacy dead?”
“No…marry, I cannot think clearly.” Rebecca’s head began to pound. “Give me until the end of the year. It’s only six weeks away.”
“And what magic shall come to pass then?”
“Will, I pray you—I mean I prithee, I beg thee, give me time. Thou hast asked me to give up my family, my religion—”
“I give up my family and religion, my land and language as well. Gods, I postponed my revenge on the Devil for thee—”
“Settle thy revenge,” Rebecca said. “Thou’ll not sleep until thy revenge is complete!”
“Providence has ordained that I shall have my vengeance,” Shakespeare said. “But thee…I feel our hearts beating further out of rhythm with each minute that passes.”
Rebecca said, “I pray, give us six weeks.”
“No,” Shakespeare said. “The moment is now. This minute! Once thou art ensnared into the bosom of thy family, I’ve lost the battle.”
Her sweet, sweet William. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Of going through life without his touch. She said, “I will do whatever thou desires. But I beseech thee. Let me see my father one more time.”
“Then tonight thou’ll come away with me?”
Rebecca bit her lip. She couldn’t let him go. Her body needed him as sure as it needed blood. He was her sustenance, her vapors of life. What heaven it would be to wake up in his arms. She was consumed by his love, and her brain was beyond its reasonable wits. She exhaled, then rapidly nodded.
“Swear it!” Shakespeare said. “Swear thou’ll come with me. Swear by thy God.”
“I’ll swear it by thy God,” she answered. “Very soon to be my God.”
Shakespeare paused, then said, “Well, then, swear by my God—our God.”
Rebecca pledged her troth in the name of Jesu Cristo.
The Great Hall of Roderigo’s house greeted him like the arms of a lover. Its walls were covered in brightly hued arras work, its stone floors covered with sweet rushes sprinkled with aromatic herbs. Torches and candles were lit from every wall sconce. The night was dreary, cold and wet, but the fire in the hearth burned as never before. Warmth. He’d forgotten its feel.
Looking around, Roderigo tried to get oriented. His family, attired in their finest clothes, was lined up in front of the dais, waiting to greet him. Three dozen servants, scrubbed shiny, stood nervously at two long trestle tables, waiting for him to be seated at the place of honor—at the dais, in the middle seat. His chair was as big as a throne. Yes, he was king of this house, but he felt as awkward as a commoner. How long had he been imprisoned in Burghley House? A week, they had told him. It felt like a month.
Rebecca anxiously awaited her father’s entrance. Never had she seen him looking more haggard. Deep folds of flesh underlined his eyes, his beard seemed to have grayed overnight, his walk had become stooped and old. His furlined physician’s robe hung on his thinner frame. She held her tears in check and waited patiently as Roderigo greeted those who stood in line before her. Uncle Jorge, Uncle Solomon. Hector Nuñoz, who made excuses for Miguel’s absence. Roderigo said he understood and would minister to Miguel as soon as the festivities were over.
Next, Roderigo greeted Benjamin and his nephews—Dunstan, Thomas, Cousin Jacob, and Enoch, Uncle Solomon’s son.
Then the women. Her mother bowed before her master, openly crying. Roderigo gently chided her for her emotional outburst. But there was kindness in his scolding. The quiver in his voice only made Sarah cry harder. Then Roderigo dutifully kissed his sister-in-law Maria, Dunstan’s wife Grace, Thomas’s wife Leah, and patted their children on the head. The last in line was Reina. Roderigo inquired who she was, and after Dunstan explained, Roderigo picked her up and kissed her forehead. Dunstan announced that she had been adopted by his family, and Roderigo commended him for his generosity.
Absent was Grandmama. With a cursory question, Roderigo dutifully asked about his mother-in-law. She was ill but sent her love, Sarah told him.
Roderigo cast his eyes upon his daughter. Rebecca kneeled before her father, but Roderigo lifted her upward and took her into his arms, hugging her as tightly as his strength would allow.
“Dear God,” he cried. “I quaked with fear at the thought of dying. Yet worse was the thought that I’d never see you again.”
Rebecca whispered, “I love you, Father.”
Roderigo continued embracing her, rocked her in his arms.
Shakespeare witnessed the reunion with the staff of the kitchen—at the request of Rebecca’s family.
That’s not to say we don’t appreciate your service, Sir George Ames had said. But we must explain your presence to Dr. Lopez, and as we will not have adequate time to properly—
Shakespeare had cut him off, saying he understood.
Sir George had offered him money.
Shakespeare had refused. He now wondered whether it was a wise decision. His pockets were nearly empty after sending Anne his money, the theaters were bolted shut, and he hadn’t received funds for his writing from his patron, Lord Southampton. Had Shakespeare accepted the converso’s money, at least he would have walked away with something tonight. For as he looked at Rebecca in her father’s arms, he knew that her troth would never come to pass.
Chapter 44
Shakespeare listened as Rebecca made her excuses, unmoved by her pleas, tears, and promises. They stood just inside the front entrance to the manor house, speaking in hushed tones, Rebecca holding his sleeve and hoping that this meager physical joining would keep him by her side. She begged for some more time. Six weeks at the most. She was obligated to Miguel until his recovery was complete. Her father would be devastated if she left so soon after his terrible ordeal. She just wanted a little more time with her grandam.
When she finished her impassioned speech, he simply shrugged, pulled away from her, stuck his hands in the pockets of his jerkin and closed the door behind him. Rebecca cursed and followed him out into blackness, down the estate’s arcade, oblivious to the winds and to the freezing rain that sprayed her woolen nightgown.
“Don’t leave now,” she implored. “It’s three hours until sunrise. At least wait till the crow of the cock.”
“The gates of the city will be open by the time I walk the distance,” Shakespeare said.
�
�I’ll come to thee this afternoon,” Rebecca said.
“No.”
“Tomorrow, then,” she said.
“No.”
“When?”
Shakespeare reached the end of the colonnade and adjusted his hat. Stepping into the courtyard, he was assaulted by downpour.
“When can I see thee?” Rebecca repeated, walking into the open space. She didn’t flinch even as water showered her face and nightclothing. Angrily, she brushed wet strands of hair from her eyes.
“When can I see thee?” she repeated, following him.
“Farewell, Rebecca,” Shakespeare said. “I wish you good hap.”
Rebecca grabbed his arm. “I will elope with thee, my love, but I need time. Just grant me a little extra time.”
“Take as much time as you require,” Shakespeare said.
“I’ll meet thee today, at two of the clock at the corner of Old Jewry near Gresham’s mansion.”
“You may do as you wish,” Shakespeare said. “Tis no concern of mine.”
“Willy—”
“You’ll catch ague if you remain unprotected in such cold, mistress.”
“The outside chill is but a balmy breeze compared to the ice of thy heart,” Rebecca said.
Shakespeare said, “I pray you, release my arm.”
“I’ll come to thy closet directly,” Rebecca said. “At two. Swear to me that thou wilt receive me.”
“No.”
“William, please!” she said, shivering. “Just give me a chance to explain. Then if thou desires to cut me out of thy life, I’ll not object.”
“Let go of my arm.”
“Promise me.”
“Promise you what, mistress?” Shakespeare said.
“I’ll be in the city at two.” Rebecca steadied her voice. “Please, I beg thee, let me come to thee and explain my position.”
“Your position is clear, Rebecca,” Shakespeare said. “It couldn’t be clearer.”
Rebecca yanked her hair and stamped her foot in a puddle, splashing mud and water up into her nightdress. Shakespeare noticed her feet were bare. She began to cry.
“Go back inside, Becca,” he said tenderly. “Please.”
“Then swear thou’ll meet me at thy closet at two,” Rebecca said.
Shakespeare paused. It was useless to argue with her. She was as tenacious as a bulldog. He agreed to meet her. She made him swear it.
“At two, then.” Rebecca smiled as she trembled. “Thou’ll be there waiting for me?”
“Aye.”
“Thou swore it.”
“I know.”
“And thou shalt keep thy pledge?”
“Aye,” Shakespeare said.
“I love thee, Will,” Rebecca said.
Shakespeare stroked her damask cheek and said, “Back into the house, m’lady.”
“I love thee,” Rebecca repeated.
Shakespeare swatted her bottom. “Go.”
Rebecca wiped away tears and rainwater from her face and headed back to the manor. Shakespeare wondered whether she really believed he’d keep his pledge.
By the dinner hour he was well fed, packed, and penniless. He’d taken “The Rape of Lucrece” off to William Jaggard for printing, allowing plenty of time for the Stationer’s office to register it by the upcoming spring. In Shakespeare’s leather pouch was a copy of the poem for Southampton. If hap be sweet, the earl would be moved to tears, so emotionally swept away by the poetry that he couldn’t help but part with some gold coins for its writer.
After the success of Venus and Adonis, Shakespeare’s friends had been astonished that he didn’t abandon the stage and acting in favor of writing pamphlets. But Shakespeare understood the whims of public taste, that his writings could suddenly lose popular appeal and he’d be left destitute. The life of an actor and bookwriter was, in its own curious way, more stable. Plays could be written quickly and altered just as fast. They could be made timely by simply inserting a reference to a current topic. More important, the fellowship, if successful, was financially independent—not at the mercy of a benefactor’s purse strings.
Shakespeare was confident that the earl would find the dedication of “Lucrece” to his liking and would enjoy the poem as well. If Southampton was as generous as he’d been in the past, Shakespeare would have the means for a merry Christmas with his family—a big yule log, presents for the children, and pots of ale for wassail. Christmas with his loved ones—his parents, Anne’s parents, the children.
And to think he’d been ready to give it all up for a Jewess. Aye, he’d been correct the first time he’d laid eyes upon Rebecca. She was a witch.
Yet, strangely, he wished her no harm. All he wanted to do was forget her, to distance himself from the perfume of her body, from her silken touch….
Shivers trailed down his spine.
Maybe in another lifetime.
His schedule: first Southampton, then Christmas with the family, then on to Brithall—to Henley manor house.
Talk to the priest, Mackering had told him.
Harry, the Catholic—a man as faceted as a royal jewel.
Shakespeare threw his bag over his shoulder.
Rebecca had waylaid him once. But no more. He didn’t feel even a tinge of remorse at breaking his pledge. Hadn’t she broken her troths countless times?
Shakespeare closed and locked the door of his closet, leaving behind no note of explanation. Rebecca was a clever wench. She’d read the unwritten lines.
Chapter 45
It was not the Christmas Shakespeare had imagined.
Its beginnings had been promising. Anne had been delighted with her Christmas present—three sovereigns wrapped in gaily colored paper. She’d even kissed him spontaneously, loved him wickedly the night of his return. Yet the longer he stayed in Warwick, the more he felt like a stranger in his own house. Anne’s business never seemed to pertain to him. When he tried to talk to her about domestic concerns—the condition of the house, the health of their parents, Hamnet’s schooling—Shakespeare sensed a note of impatience in his wife’s voice. She seemed even less interested in what had happened to him in London since his last home visit.
Their dialogues were soon steeped in cold silence.
The morning after Twelfth Night, Shakespeare was on the road to Brithall.
Travel was slow, but the inns were warm. He was able to afford the best, thanks to Southampton’s generosity—more money than conceived in his most fanciful dreams. His pockets and purse jangled pleasantly as he rode. Rich with coins, poor with love.
By the time he arrived up North, freezing rain had turned to snow and sleet, muddy trails covered with strips of gray ice. Winter had fallen upon the country, draping the mountains, hills, and grasslands with yards of folded white velvet. The air had been mercifully calm on his trek upward, the winds stinging cold but gentle. Aye, the snow fell constantly, but it was as if Providence had chosen to tickle the landscape this January rather than to pummel it.
He reached the outskirts of Brithall on January ninth, shortly before the supper hour. It took him another ten minutes of riding through open snow drifts before the manor came into view. Riding up to the gatehouse, he pulled his horse to a stop, reached inside his bag and pulled out the personal letter of reference from Margaret Whitman. Though Shakespeare had spoken briefly with the lord of the manor, Viscount Henley, on his first trip up North, he’d not met the priest. The letter assured the lord that Shakespeare was trustworthy and would defend the secrecy of the Jesuit with his life. Shakespeare wondered whether that was true, but hopefully he’d never be forced to prove the boastful words. He placed the letter back in his cloak. The parchment was of poor quality, and if left too long in the cold, would freeze and crack.
Shakespeare studied the manor. On his last visit he’d been so engrossed in the house’s magnificent gardens that he scarcely looked at the building itself. But now, with the rest of the land covered with white, Brithall stood out like a full moon against a b
lack sky. Beyond the gatehouse was a gravel courtyard, then the entrance arch to the manor. On either side of the arch sat a hexagonal tower several stories high, ringed with leaded-glass windows. The peaks of the towers were embellished with rich plaster molding, cast in a rose and hawk motif—the Henley crest. On either side of the towers were square walls of cut stone. The left wing of the manor house seemed a bit larger than the right—no doubt it held the Great Hall—and ended in another tower fashioned like the pair flanking the arch.
Shakespeare waited to be halted by the guards at the gatehouse, and when no one came to greet him, he rode through the courtyard up to the front of the manor. He dismounted and knocked on the arched door—a solid piece of wood crisscrossed with iron—a door that should have been part of a fortified castle rather than a manor house. Unless, of course, the manor house concealed a priest…
It took five minutes before a footman opened the door. Shakespeare introduced himself, presented Margaret’s letter, and then was left in the cold, waiting to see if Lord Henley would bid him welcome or send him away.
Another few minutes passed before the door was opened again by Robert Whitman, Viscount Henley himself. He was a man of dominating physical appearance—tall, swarthy, and solid. Nothing about him was subtle, a portrait created in dark, brooding oils rather than pastel watercolors. His beard was long and pomaded, his eyes tarry black. He nodded recognition, threw open the door and stood aside from the threshold, allowing Shakespeare to step inside. With a snap of his fingers Henley had his servants removing Shakespeare’s cloak and gloves and brushing off his boots. A groom was dispatched to take care of Shakespeare’s horse.
“We were just about to take supper,” Henley said, his voice loud and deep. “I’ll have one of the servers set a plate for you upon the dais.”
Shakespeare was about to protest, but Henley cut him off.
“Come, good man. The ride up here must have been treacherous.”
Shakespeare said, “Aye, but blessed be the Almighty, no storms did arise. And the inns of England are the finest in the world.”
The Quality of Mercy Page 48