“God save the Queen,” said Henley.
“God save the Queen,” repeated Shakespeare. He stopped walking and pulled out a wrapped package. “If your lordship will allow me the honor, in humble gratitude I offer you a small trinket—a toy unworthy to be housed with such finery that your worship possesses.”
Henley took the package, unwrapped it, and inspected it. It was a silver plate of sterling, heavy, and richly engraved. Henley knew it had cost the player well over what he could afford, yet he accepted the plate as if it were a bauble, thanking Shakespeare in a cool, detached voice. Any large display of gratitude would be ignoble, considering their differing classes. Still, Henley was impressed that the actor had taken such care in his selection of a gift. Harry had been correct in his assessment of his young apprentice. Long ago he’d said that Shakespeare was a man of unusual wit and taste. A clever man, not to be taken lightly. He knew much…too much.
“Shall we proceed?” Henley said.
“After your lordship,” Shakespeare said.
“Well, then.” Henley took the lead. “Come.”
Shakespeare followed Henley into the Great Hall—as he’d guessed, in the left wing of the house. The stone walls rose fifty feet, the ceiling timbered and beamed with coarse slabs of darkstained oak. Upon the walls hung selected weapons from the family armor. The dais, resting against the eastern side of the room, had a direct view of the open floor pit. Rotating on the spit—the broach—was a boar, its dripping fat feeding the crackling flames below. The smell of grease and fresh-cooked meat sent Shakespeare’s belly astorming. It had been almost a full day since he’d taken a stomach. On the other side of the pit were two rows of trestle tables flanked by benches. On them sat the staff of Brithall, waiting for their lord to take his seat.
Henley kept his servants squirming as he introduced Shakespeare to his wife, Lady Henley, and his three daughters—Mistress Jane, Mistress Anne, and Mistress Gertrude. They were beautiful girls—blond like their mother, with deep blue eyes. Their bosoms were full, their skin ivory white. Shakespeare bowed deeply, and sensed immediately that the two younger ones held disdain for him. Not only was he not nobility, he wasn’t even landed gentry. Yet the eldest daughter, Jane, had a gleam in her eye as she extended her hand for Shakespeare to kiss. Her fingers were soft and warm.
Shakespeare withdrew his lips quicker than protocol dictated, for he didn’t want to give Mistress Jane nor Lord Henley any unwarranted ideas. Yet as hap would have it, he was placed next to Mistress Jane at the left end of the dais.
Finally Lord Henley sat down and the first course of fowl was served. Shakespeare’s silver plate was piled high with moorcock and turnip, pigeon stuffed with figs, roasted goose, whole quail boiled in wine and plums, leek and pheasant coated with cinnamon, ginger, and honey. Accompanying the first course were pies of mincemeat, cheese tarts, spinach tarts, and bowls of fresh greens and wildflowers.
Shakespeare picked up his knife and cut the flesh of the birds into tiny bits. He was careful to avoid scratching the metal. He’d only eaten off fine sterling plates twice in his life, and the first time had been a disaster. He’d been completely unaware that silver was as soft as butter compared to pewter. He was determined not to make the same error twice.
Even though he was starved, manners prevented him from eating hurriedly. With measured pacing, he picked up pieces of meat with his fingers and put them in his mouth one at a time. He kept his eyes focused away from the damsel at his right. Yet he felt the warmth of her breath, smelled the perfume of her pomander.
The aroma of the girl made him ache for Rebecca. Gods, would the Jewess ever leave his mind in peace?
Mistress Jane had said something to him, but he didn’t hear her. He begged her pardon for not hearing her the first time, feeling like a crude peasant. He knew what his characters would say in an uncomfortable situation such as this one—he could make them witty and charming at will. Yet when he was forced to live out the scenes of his mind, he felt like Moses—as if his tongue had been burned with coal, rendering him slow of speech.
“I asked if you were enjoying your meal,” Mistress Jane repeated.
“The food is splendid,” Shakespeare answered, head down.
“It usually is on Thursday,” Jane said. “It’s the night my lord father hosts grievances from the servants. Tis the only night of the week we’re forced to sup in the Great Hall with the staff, instead of eating in our private dining hall.” She smiled, leaned over and whispered, “My lord father thinks a grand banquet and succulent victuals makes the servants soft of heart and stomach, less likely to give him troubles.”
Shakespeare nodded dutifully, and tried to concentrate on his food. Yet he felt Jane’s eyes upon him.
“Does the strategy work?” he asked quietly.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Are the servants happier with a satisfied stomach?”
“I suppose so,” Jane answered. “My lord father gets little uprising from the lower class. He and Mother run the household very sensibly.”
Shakespeare returned his attention to his food.
“Have you been here before?” asked Jane. “Your face…I’ve seen it.”
“Aye,” he said. “I visited about six months ago.”
“Yes, I recall you clearly now. You strolled the gardens with Father.”
“Aye.”
“About the same time as Cousin Harry’s death.”
Shakespeare said nothing.
“Did you know my lord father’s cousin?” Jane asked.
“Yes. I knew him well,” Shakespeare said. “How well did you know him?”
“Harry?” Jane smiled. Her eyebrows arched. “He’d been visiting Brithall since…before I was born.”
“And,” Shakespeare prodded.
“And that’s all.” Again the sly smile. “He was a bit of a cad. A harmless man, but Father never left us alone together. Just to make certain that our silly games were kept as such.”
“What kind of silly games?” Shakespeare asked casually.
“Oh, tag and football and wrestling. Lots of play wrestling.”
Shakespeare didn’t answer.
“How close were you to Harry?” Jane asked.
“We were very dear to each other. As dear as—” He hesitated, then said, “As dear as cousins.”
Jane pushed around the food on her plate with her knife. “Did he ever mention me?”
“He always spoke fondly of his beautiful cousins up North,” Shakespeare lied.
Jane smiled again. “Did you ever meet Harry’s wife?”
Her words were meant to display an air of casualness, but Shakespeare detected a note of tension. Jealousy. He pretended not to hear. Jane didn’t pursue the discussion.
“A pity he died so horridly,” she said.
“A great loss it was.”
“How do you think he died?”
“I wish I knew, mistress,” Shakespeare said. He noticed an icy stare from Lady Henley and quickly turned his head away from Jane’s. A moment later he felt the young girl’s leg brush against his. Moving his leg to the left would cause him to sit in an awkward position, yet he felt he had to do something to discourage her advances. But what? A minute later her hand was upon his knee. Shakespeare felt himself go hot. Inconspicuously, he slipped his hand under the table, picked up hers and returned it to her lap. She slumped back into her chair and pouted. Her expression held anger tinged with emotional hurt.
The two of them ate in stony silence. Shakespeare managed to catch her eye and gave her a disarming smile. She smiled back, then coyly returned her attention to her food. A smart one she was, he thought. One rejection from a commoner was enough. She’d not have another.
“You’re very isolated up here,” Shakespeare noted.
“Quite,” answered Jane.
“You must have few visitors to Brithall, mistress,” Shakespeare said.
“Very few,” said Jane wryly.
After the mea
l Shakespeare was forced to sit through hours of complaints. One by one the servants approached their lord, telling him their problems, hurts, and slights.
One scullion complained that a server was too much a prankster, purposely trying to trip him whenever he carried hot caldrons of pottage. The server denied the charges emphatically, claiming the scullion was angry with him because he, the server, had won the heart of the scullion’s wench—a buttery maid. The maid denied having anything to do with either of the boys, insisting she’d rather join a cloister than to have unmarried fucking with men. Lady Henley blushed at the ungodly language. The girls giggled. Shakespeare held back laughter himself. Lord Henley rebuked both servants, settling the affair with a stern lecture and the extraction of a promise for peace between Christians.
It took almost two hours for all the grievances to be aired. Then came the accountings of the land. How many cows had given birth the past week? How much food were the sheep consuming, now that most of their land was covered with snow? How were their coats of wool growing? How many eggs were the chickens laying? Would the soil be adequately prepared for crops come the spring?
Some of Lord Henley’s tenant farmers presented themselves. A few gave their lord coinage for their rent. One pleaded with him for an extension on his rent, saying that his wife and child took suddenly ill. He hadn’t had a chance to work that week for his money. Lord Henley was a merciful man and gave the farmer another week to come up with his rent money.
The farmer wept with appreciation, heaping benediction after benediction upon his most gracious landlord.
It was deep into the night—almost nine of the clock—before all the problems were sorted out. At the conclusion of the dealings, Lord Henley stood. He, his family, and Shakespeare left the Great Hall, and the others returned to their household positions. It was time to bed for the night, but Henley was restless. Something was on the player’s mind, and he aimed to find out what it was. Just the two of them. Alone. He asked Shakespeare to join him for a stroll in the long gallery and the player accepted the invitation. Henley led him back through the entry arch and up the spiral staircase to the second floor of the right tower.
The long gallery was sixty feet in length, fifteen feet in width, illuminated by torches resting in wall sconces. The walls were fashioned of smooth plaster and upon them hung the portraits of the family—past and present. A three-sectioned mullion window on the right allowed an excellent view of full-moon-lit orchards, now frozen over with snow. The left wall held three Norman arched windows—the old shutters recently glazed over, Henley announced. It made for less draft in the winter.
Henley pointed to each portrait and introduced the ancestor to Shakespeare. The Whitman family had originally come to England at the time of the Norman invasion. They’d been elevated to nobility—the Viscount Henley—during the reign of Henry the Second, Brithall granted to them as a reward from the king for their support in the Becket affair. Their great-great-grandfather was fluent in French and Italian as well as English and Latin, and insisted that the family head carry on this tradition.
“I speak them all,” the lord said proudly.
“Truly remarkable,” said Shakespeare.
“This portrait,” said Henley. “This was my father’s brother, Lord Chesterfield.” The painting flickered in the muted orange light. “I speak no ill of my own father when I say this, but my uncle was quite an influence on me. Both of my uncles were.”
“Have you a portrait of your other uncle?” Shakespeare asked.
A pinch of pink arose in Henley’s cheeks.
“No,” he said. “Not at the present time.”
Viscount Henley quickly went on to explain that Lord Chesterfield was Harry’s father. Harry had been the fifth of seven sons, and there had been four girls as well. Harry had been a wayward boy and caused his lord father a great deal of grief.
“There is no predicting how children will turn out,” Henley said.
Shakespeare agreed.
Henley suddenly turned on him, “And just what was your passionate connection with my cousin?”
“He was my mentor,” Shakespeare answered without pause. “He was my friend.”
“And that’s all?”
Shakespeare was puzzled by Henley’s acid tone. “I don’t know what you mean, m’lord.”
Henley sighed and said, “He was a thorn in my uncle’s side.”
“Harry was a rare breed of animal,” Shakespeare said. “He had his wild side. But I loved him.”
“Why did you come up here?”
“I came to give my friend eternal rest. That cannot come to pass unless his murderer is apprehended.”
“Just what are you implying?” asked Henley.
“Nothing,” Shakespeare said. Once again he explained that he was simply trying to retrace Harry’s last steps.
“And what do you hope to find now that you found not the first time you were up here?”
“An overlooked clue, mayhap.”
“Have you discovered one?”
“Not yet, m’lord.”
Henley took a step forward and started to pace the gallery again. He said, “Harry used to visit me and my family every year for two weeks right before Mayday. I allowed him to keep visiting Brithall out of tradition. My father had always been kind to Harry even though he’d known well Harry’s…shortcomings as nobility. He never rose past his station…. As a matter of fact, he regressed!”
Shakespeare said nothing.
“So be it,” Henley said. His voice had become louder and full of tension. “I’m not responsible for the sins of my kin. As children, Harry and I got on well, as adults, we were of differing rank and wanted nothing to do with each other. Yet the visits here served some purpose for him, else he would have stopped coming altogether.”
Shakespeare held his breath. “Perhaps it was the priest,” he suggested.
Henley looked him square in the eye, the flames highlighting his dark pupils—pools of smoldering coal. After reading Margaret Whitman’s letter, he’d been expecting the topic and was prepared for it. “I beg your pardon,” he said.
Shakespeare held the viscount’s eyes.
“The priest that you house, m’lord,” he said.
“We have no priest here,” Henley said. “We follow the Church of the land—the religion of the state.”
“I need to speak with him, m’lord.”
“Speak with whom?”
“With Fra Silvera.”
“I know of no such person, man,” said Henley. His voice was even, his expression fixed as if cast in stone.
“I desire you and your household no ills, your worship,” said Shakespeare. “But it is necessary for me to converse with Fra Silvera. It is my firm belief that he holds some deep knowledge of your kinsman’s death.”
“We have no such person here,” Henley repeated angrily, and turned his back on the player.
“If I were an agent of the Queen,” said Shakespeare, “would I find no such man if I looked behind one of the fireplaces? Or perhaps I should look under the staircases. Or for a trapdoor up in the attic—”
“Are you an agent of the Queen?” Henley asked.
Shakespeare shook his head.
Henley spun around, stared at him with rage. “What do you want from us? Money? Land? An upwardly social marriage to one of my daughters?”
“No—”
“I saw how you looked at Mistress Jane.”
“Twas your daughter who advanced upon me.”
Henley suddenly looked defeated. “I repeat. What do you want?”
“To speak with Fra Silvera,” Shakespeare said. “That’s all. Once I’ve spoken with him and satisfied my curiosity that he had nothing to do with Harry’s murder—”
“And if we had this imaginary Fra, and if he had something to do with Harry’s murder, then what? Would you have him reported to the authorities, have us all arrested and hung, my lands confiscated, my servants sent out penniless to fend for them
selves?”
Shakespeare paused. He’d never considered the consequences of his actions. He assured Henley that the secret would forever remain inside Brithall. But the lord was dubious, angry, and scared.
“I spoke with you the first time you were up here, Shakespeare,” said Henley. “I gave you my time, told you as best I could remember what Harry did in the weeks he was here. I told you he came and left here in good health. Now you intrude upon my gracious hospitality and threaten to report me to authorities—”
“I have not threatened you, m’lord,” said Shakespeare. “But I need to speak with the priest. Secrets between him and Harry may reveal to me something about the murder.”
“A priest would never reveal secrets told to him by another man. He follows laws higher than the laws of the land.”
“I’m aware of that,” Shakespeare said. “But perhaps some things were not told to him within the sanctity of confession.”
“And if I refuse?” said Henley. “If I deny that there is a priest in this house? Then what?”
Shakespeare thought before speaking. Finally he said, “I pray you, m’lord. Allow the dead to rest in peace. Harry’s soul will not be laid to sleep until the circumstances of his demise are fully disclosed. You owe your kinsman perpetual rest, your worship.”
Henley remained motionless for a minute, then slowly nodded his head. As a Catholic the viscount would never damn his cousin to perpetual restlessness. He’d have to account for his actions later on in his afterlife. He instructed Shakespeare to wait in the long gallery, as he needed to be alone for a minute.
Henley started to walk away, then stopped and turned to Shakespeare. He said, “You must have loved him dearly.”
“I did.”
“Harry spoke kindly of you as well,” Henley said. “He admired your wit. What was he to you?”
“He acted my father when I first came to London. He was a great teacher, a most generous person with time and money.”
“Generous to a fault,” said Henley. “He squandered his inheritance as quickly as he received it. Of late he was constantly short of money.”
Shakespeare said nothing. Harry had extracted good coinage from the fellowship, but apparently it hadn’t been enough. Money goes fast if a body is involved in extortion and gambling.
The Quality of Mercy Page 49