The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  Think, he screamed to himself. Think! You’re not trying hard enough!

  Rebecca asked, “What is it?”

  “What is what?”

  “Thou hast become silent.”

  “Nothing,” Shakespeare said. He noticed his abrupt tone of voice and immediately added, “I love thee.”

  “I love thee too.”

  “Dost thou?”

  “Oh, Will, how could thou believe otherwise?”

  “Then why dost thou refuse to come away with me?”

  “My shame would brand thee as traitor. Never would I allow that.”

  “It matters not to me.”

  “Aye, but it matters to me. Think of thy son. Is such shame what thou desires for him?”

  Shakespeare turned onto his stomach. His pallet was lumpy and it irritated him. He said, “If we were to flee to Venice—”

  “I will not become a Catholic,” Rebecca said flatly.

  Shakespeare said, “If thou refuses my God, I will follow thy God.”

  “Become a Jew?”

  Shakespeare said, “Has not a Jew eyes, has not a Jew hands? If I tickle this Jewess, does not she laugh?” He dug his hands into Rebecca’s ribs.

  “Stop it,” Rebecca said, giggling.

  “Has not a Jew affections, passions?”

  “This Jewess does.”

  “Then so shall I.”

  “Never.” Rebecca turned to Shakespeare and said, “Becoming a Jew, my love, would be thy ruin, I regret to say.”

  “Will I be of different form once I pronounce allegiance to thy God? Will I suddenly be bereft of my writing skills, of my acting talents?”

  “William,” Rebecca said. “In Venice the Jews live in a ghetto.”

  Shakespeare felt his stomach sink. He’d forgotten about that. The Jews, confined behind gates—no Christians entered the ghetto, and the Jews did not come out. No plays were performed behind the iron gates. The city of Rome was the same way.

  “Our union is impossible,” Rebecca said. “We must accept our fate—”

  “What about Padua?” Shakespeare asked hopefully. “There, Jews are known to live with Christians—”

  “Only a matter of time,” Rebecca said. “No, Willy. Even if thou would convert of thy own free will, I wouldn’t run away with thee. To be a Jew is a burden—aye, a burden I have accepted. But I refuse to imprison thee to such a hard existence.”

  Shakespeare secretly felt relieved, then cursed his cowardice. Would he really have converted had Rebecca said yes? He doubted the veracity of his own words and hated himself for it. He hugged Rebecca, kissed the nape of her neck. Of the two of them, she was the stronger, the more clever. Had she devoted her energies to finding Harry’s murderer, the fiend would have been tried and convicted by now, his corpse nothing more than ashes in Smithfield. Shakespeare felt Rebecca’s body relaxing in his arms. He held her in silence, and soon her breathing became slow and steady. Maybe it was his willingness to become a Jew that suddenly gave her peace. Whatever it was, Shakespeare was grateful that she’d finally fallen asleep.

  He was too alert to try sleeping. His thoughts turned to Harry, to his murder—over and over. Mackering, Chambers, Fottingham, Lord Henley, the Jesuit who was Harry’s true father, the stew Catherine—Cat. Harry’s wife Margaret, who wore her bitterness like armor. Individually they all had separate identities, separate characters. But together they were like a spinning color wheel—the result was dead white.

  He tossed them around in his brain. Just white, white, and more white. Then he stopped suddenly. His logic was all befuddled. Start from the beginning of the first trip up North. Everyone he conversed with, down to the most insignificant tapster he’d met on the road to Brithall….

  No, start with his conversation with Margaret at the funeral.

  Could Margaret have killed her husband?

  Shakespeare considered the possibility. It seemed absurd—Harry’s death was the reason for her hapless condition. Yet Harry had been a less than ideal husband. His carousing had left Margaret keeping company with time and loneliness. Like Anne…

  He shooed away the melancholy thought.

  What about the innkeepers he’d met on his first trip up North? He reflected a moment, trying to awaken his dormant memory. They had told him nothing of significance. Harry had told bawdy poetry. He had departed without incident.

  His mind began to drift….

  The first stop at Brithall. Who had he spoken to there? Lord Henley. No, hadn’t he met a guard at the gatehouse first?

  Maybe the guard was a lookout for the Jesuit. Maybe he’d told the Jesuit someone was at Brithall asking questions about Harry.

  Maybe.

  Had he mentioned Harry Whitman to the guard?

  Gods, it was so long ago.

  The Jesuit. Why would he kill his son?

  Then there was Lord Henley. What reason could he have to kill Harry?

  Shakespeare thought.

  Perhaps Harry had finally decided to follow his calling as a Catholic priest, exposing the family as Papist. Henley had panicked and killed his cousin in a heated argument.

  Yet nothing in Harry’s most recent behavior had indicated any impending change.

  Shakespeare yawned.

  On to Hemsdale.

  Alderman Fottingham.

  Another yawn.

  Then Chambers.

  So tired.

  No, wait…The stew. The stew had been before Fottingham and Chambers.

  Catherine the stew, in the bilberry bushes. Now she was dead.

  The stew.

  Then the trip into Hemsdale.

  The maidens dancing in the street.

  Who had he seen before the stew?

  The bilberry bushes.

  Who had been after the stew?

  The hawkers on the street.

  The mongers…

  A costermonger…

  A pear…

  He was overcome by sleep. His dreams were restless. His dreams were revealing.

  The Thames was crusted with oil and muck, the water reeking of garbage. Rebecca’s stomach was knotted, and the green soup upon which she sailed did little to calm her nerves. At least the waves were gentle, blessed be God. And Shakespeare was with her—she had requested that he be the one to accompany her. His hand stroked hers and she feasted on his touch like a ravenous dog. At first her family had protested the player’s presence, but it had been Miguel who had insisted she be allowed to take him along. She needed his comfort, his love, and it was unwise to upset her in any way. She was their last hope.

  The waterman rowed at an agonizingly slow pace. Faster, she wanted to cry out, but she said nothing. She drew her cape tightly around her neck and snuggled against Shakespeare’s chest. Mist coated her face and dampened her hair. She was warm yet she shivered.

  What would she say to Father?

  She might not even have enough time to speak freely; she had a dozen messages to deliver from the family—her mother’s love, news about the Ames Trade Company, her brother’s ambitions, Miguel’s commerce. With help from Uncle Solomon, Miguel had entered the competitive, mercantile world of the cloth trade. A thousand bells ringing in her head at once. She held in her lap a bag of woolens. Perhaps she’d spend the entire time dressing Father in proper clothes. First the shirt, then the hose, then the socks. Thick socks, triple-knitted. She was muttering to herself. Shakespeare asked her what was wrong.

  “Nothing,” she answered. “Nothing at all.”

  He held her tightly and said, “Worry not. God is with thee.”

  Rebecca didn’t answer.

  “I wish thee good fortune, beautiful mistress. Thou deservest fair fate.”

  Rebecca mouthed a thank-you. Suddenly she had lost her voice.

  The tip of the White Tower peeked through the fog. How far were they now? A mile? A hundred feet? Rebecca felt Shakespeare tighten his grip on her hands. Develin Tower, Beauchamp Tower, Bell Tower…the Middle Tower—the foot entrance to
the great fortress.

  Rebecca trembled, looked at Shakespeare. He seemed composed, yet on second glance his calmness was a facade. It made Rebecca all the more nervous.

  A boat manned by three yeomen warders ordered them to stop. They asked for Rebecca by name, they knew her business. A fat warder boarded their boat, almost tipping it over, and held out his hand to Rebecca.

  “I love thee,” Shakespeare repeated.

  “I love thee too,” Rebecca said. She picked up the sack that held her father’s clothes, but a fat man confiscated it.

  “It’s warm clothing for her father,” Shakespeare explained.

  The warder rummaged through the bag and pulled out a blanket. He eyed it, then nodded greedy approval. He wrapped it around his shoulders.

  Shakespeare explained, “The man is freezing in prison—”

  “The man deserves his neck in a noose!” answered the warder. His voice was deep, ominous. “He’s a traitor. And if ye be his kin, so are ye of treacherous blood.”

  Rebecca squeezed Shakespeare’s arm, urging him to cease his protests. It was impossible to prevent the man from stealing. The warder pulled out the hose and held them up to his waist. Too small, he mumbled, stuffing them back in the sack. Disgusted, he examined the shirt, sleeves, and robe, none of which pleased him. He stuffed the clothing back in the sack and shoved it in Rebecca’s face.

  Rebecca studied his features. If she ever had the opportunity, she’d report the pig to the Queen. He offered her a hand to help her into the boat, his flesh like chilled dough. She turned to Shakespeare.

  “Go,” he whispered.

  She nodded and boarded the boat. As they rowed her toward the Tower, away from Shakespeare, Rebecca blew her lover a kiss good-bye—a kiss he returned in kind. She watched him fade into the ashen expanse of fog and sea.

  Gone.

  What stood before her were hostile walls—a place of no escape. She reminded herself that she was just a visitor, but the thought only deepened the pain of her father’s bondage.

  Gods, let this be over.

  She saw the arch of Traitor’s Gate flanked by the Tower wharf. The top half was semicircular steel lattice, iron spikes welded to the bottom of the cross-bar. The doors of the gate were open, greeting her like the jaws of a dragon. The waterman rowed quickly through the gate, past St. Thomas’s Tower, until the boat pulled alongside a staircase.

  Time to exit to dry land. Rebecca was dizzy, her feet numb as she stepped on the solid ground. Her brain started to hum and black sparkles appeared before her eyes. She felt herself falling but was caught by a yeoman warder before she hit the ground. The beefeater was young and anxious. His blue eyes seemed refreshingly honest.

  “Are you well, mistress?” he asked. “You’re ghastly white.”

  “My feet…” Rebecca mumbled. “Twas a cold ride on the river this morning.” A trickle of sweat ran down her face. She mopped it off with a kerchief and took a deep breath.

  “Ye almost fainted,” said the fat warder—a swine, he was. Her blanket had been stuffed into his livery coat. Yet he was so obese it hardly showed.

  “Best ye rest,” said the blue-eyed warder. “The ride was quite cold.”

  “I’m well now,” Rebecca answered.

  “Can you walk?” asked the blue-eyed warder.

  A third guard—a short man with a skimpy beard—grunted at them to hurry it up.

  “Yes, we must hurry.” Rebecca shook her feet, trying to bring the blood back to her toes. She laughed nervously. “There. I think I’m ready to chance it on my own.”

  The warder released her from his arms. Rebecca stood and took tentative steps up the stairs to a cobblestone pathway. The fat warder had no patience with her slow-footedness and urged her along with a shove. The mortar between the cobblestones was pocked and rough. The heel of her shoe had loosened and she tripped. Again it was the blue-eyed yeoman who helped her to her feet.

  “I’m terribly clumsy this morrow,” Rebecca said, almost in tears.

  “Speed it up!” ordered the wispy-bearded warder. He was already five paces ahead of her.

  The blue-eyed guard took Rebecca’s hand. “Hang on to me, mistress. I’ll make sure you don’t fall again.”

  “Thank you,” whispered Rebecca.

  They hurried her along. Rebecca tried to get her bearings. The Thames was to her right, so they must be heading east, on the outer bailey. To her left was the inner wall, the inner curtain of the Tower complex. The stones were blackened with time but the buildings seemed as solid as if erected yesterday. Cross-shaped loopholes were carved into the wall every fifty paces, the battlement crenellated. Everything about the place was hard, dense, impenetrable.

  Rebecca felt light-headed. Mercifully, a waft of foul-smelling sea assaulted her nostrils, bringing instant clarity into her brain. She was entrenched in fear but forced herself onward.

  “Where resides my father?” she managed to ask.

  “Ye’ll find out soon enough,” answered the fat warder.

  The men walked faster. The stones beneath Rebecca’s feet seemed like stumbling blocks and she fought to keep her balance.

  “Come along, girl,” ordered the piggy guard. He smiled and added, “Stay too long and we’ll be throwing you in the Tower as well.”

  Rebecca looked to the blue-eyed warder for comfort. He squeezed her arm and smiled. His eyes. They reminded Rebecca of Shakespeare.

  They approached a large tower near the eastern end of the fortress. “That’s Lanthorn Tower, is it not?” Rebecca said to the warder by her side.

  “Aye, mistress.”

  “Is my father there?” she asked.

  “Nay, mistress, the next one over—”

  “Quiet!” ordered the pig.

  “She’ll find out in a minute, sir,” said the blue-eyed warder. He turned to Rebecca and said, “Your father’s imprisoned on the second floor of the Salt Tower. His cell is spacious. He was moved there not more than a week ago on the Queen’s orders.”

  “God save the Queen,” Rebecca said.

  “God save the Queen,” the yeomen warders replied in single voice.

  The Salt Tower rose from the southeast corner of the fortress, a three-quarter cylinder of stone, the remaining quarter filled by a square turret that housed the spiral staircase. The stairs were so narrow that Rebecca could not place both feet on the step at the same time. She concentrated on her footwork, tried not to fall. The walls were an irregular patchwork of solid rock coated with dirt and streaked with chalky limestone deposits. Midway between the first and second floors the stairwell widened to allow for a deep hole between the wall of the turret and the staircase—a privy, stinking with recent use. The air was chilled, the walls freezing to the touch. The three warders took Rebecca as far as the second landing. There she was met by three other beefeaters. The two sets of guards exchanged greetings, then the first trio left.

  The warder in charge this time was older, his face scored by wrinkles. His expression was blank, but his voice was kind as he told Rebecca to wait a moment. He fished out a ring of keys, then opened the cell door.

  Roderigo was sitting at a small desk, a sheet of paper, an inkpot and a quill before him.

  Rebecca whispered, “Father.”

  There was no response.

  She approached him and saw that the ink was dry, the paper blank.

  “Father,” she repeated.

  Roderigo’s first thought was his ears had deceived him, his eyes were playing tricks. A vision, an angel, a goddess. No, better. His daughter! His Becca! He felt the tears come down in torrents and could do nothing to stop them. They rained upon his paper. Weakened by shock, he dropped his head in the enclosure of his arms and sobbed upon his desk. Rebecca rushed to him and embraced his back.

  The warder shut the door and took up post inside the cell. “You’ve a half hour, mistress,” he said.

  Rebecca raised her head and said thank you. “Father,” she whispered.

  Roderigo kep
t crying.

  “Father,” said Rebecca, “we haven’t much time and I have a great deal to tell you—”

  “You’re going to have to speak louder, mistress,” said the beefeater. His voice was firm.

  Rebecca apologized and forced her father to stand. His legs seemed wobbly. He needed exercise. At least the cell was quite spacious, thanks be to Her Majesty. Five wall faces, each one containing a splayed arrow loop within an arched embrasure. A desk, a writing chair, a small fireplace, fresh straw on the floor. No privy. He was probably taken to the one in the stairwell….

  “Let’s take a walk,” Rebecca said.

  Roderigo jerked his head up. “I am freed?”

  “No,” Rebecca said. She felt sick to her stomach. “Let’s take a walk around your closet—”

  “My prison,” Roderigo said flatly.

  Rebecca slipped her arm under her father’s. Gods, he’d become so thin and pale. His beard, once full and rich with color, had turned completely white and brittle.

  “Are you warm enough, Father?” she asked. “I brought you clothes.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Yes, clothes,” she said. “Warm clothes. Woolens, thick hose—”

  “Clothes?” Roderigo repeated.

  Rebecca held back tears. “Let us walk for a while,” she said. “Get blood into the legs.”

  She gripped her father and led him around the cell, each step taken with great care.

  After a few moments he said, “I’m tired.”

  “Yes,” Rebecca said. “Pray, Father, sit down in your chair and I shall dress you properly. Do they feed you well?”

  Roderigo allowed himself to be seated. He said nothing. Without warning he started to cry again. Rebecca dried his cheeks, then wiped her own eyes. She was completely un-prepared for such deterioration. She undid his points. His garments were filthy, the smell so malodorous that she had to turn her head away as she pulled them off. Her father had always been so fastidiously clean. His disintegration was ripping out her heart.

  Let me be strong, she prayed. Do not cry in front of him. She thought of something to say, then remembered the warder. She dare not speak of the Queen’s contemplations. Anything could be misinterpreted as treason.

  She said, “I shall tell you about the family—”