The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  Thomas took hold of the feet and the two of them dropped the body into the bag. Dunstan gathered the neck of the sack and closed it with rope.

  Thomas said, “Let’s fill this grave and get the hell out of here.”

  “I greatly mislike graveyards,” said Dunstan, shoveling dirt back onto the empty coffin.

  “As opposed to the rest of us, who adore them,” said Thomas.

  “I mind them not,” Miguel answered.

  “Why is that?” asked Benjamin.

  “I think of who is here and who is not and with great merriment count myself as one who is not. I thank Providence daily that it was only my arm that died during the frightful ordeal.”

  Quickly, they filled the grave. Benjamin hoisted the sack over his shoulder. He said, “Let’s hope the body preserves until needed. Rebecca will coat it with ointment to retard its spoilage. She also suggested we rebury it in our property. The cool ground will enhance its preservation.”

  “A repulsive idea,” said Dunstan.

  “Have you a better one, brother?” asked Thomas.

  Dunstan didn’t answer.

  They interred the body in a heavily wooded spot on the outskirts of the converso common property. In deference to the man’s religion, Rebecca marked the spot with a simple cross.

  Chapter 59

  While England slept, Rebecca and her mother fashioned material into liveries of the Queen’s guard. As they cut, basted, and stitched by firelight, they spoke of things past and present. They mourned the loss of Grandmama, they prayed for Roderigo’s release. They fantasized about future times, better times. After their nightly toils ended, they curled up in Rebecca’s bed and passed the remainder of the night writing correspondence, jotting notes into diaries, or reading. They became moles, craving the darkness, loathing the light, burying dawn’s ugly truths by sleeping during the day.

  But tonight Sarah Lopez was uncommonly tired. She lay in bed stroking Rebecca’s hair, watching her daughter read. She leaned her head against Rebecca’s shoulder and fell asleep. Her dreams were of fairer times, when all her children had been alive. Bittersweet reveries that brought tears to her eyes even as she slept. She was awakened suddenly by a thud upon the window.

  Startled, Sarah asked Rebecca, “What was that?”

  “I don’t know.” Rebecca picked up the candlestick and swung her legs over the mattress. She stood up and peered out the window. “My God, it’s Willy…. I’ll be right back.”

  “Oh Becca, don’t leave me!” Sarah cried. She clamped her hands over her mouth. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “I’ll be right back, Mother,” Rebecca said. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” Sarah insisted. “I didn’t mean that…I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

  “You’re not a burden, Mother,” Rebecca said.

  “I never wanted to do to you what Grandmama did to me…. God forgive me, I shouldn’t have said that either.” Sarah began to weep. “I…I just can’t bear this pain by myself.”

  Rebecca hugged her mother. “I love you,” she said. “You’ve always been my rock of strength.”

  “But now it is I who suck strength from you.” Sarah dried her tears. “And so it was with Grandmama, God rest her soul. She was so strong, then suddenly I was her nursemaid. My sweet daughter, you don’t know the burden of caring for an aged parent—”

  “I know the joy of loving an old woman I called my grandam.” Rebecca kissed her. “You shall be as she. And you’ll never be a burden to me.”

  “I’ve become so dependent on you since Father…” Sarah’s voice trailed off.

  “Soon Miguel and I will marry,” Rebecca said. “We’ll always take care of you.”

  “And what about him?” Sarah said, pointing to the window.

  Rebecca’s throat tightened. She shrugged and muttered something about duty.

  “You love Shakespeare,” Sarah said. “You should be with him. Oh Becca, you deserve happiness, but I’m so afraid to be alone.”

  “I’ll always be here for you,” Rebecca said. “As will Benjamin.”

  The mention of her son seemed to calm Sarah immediately.

  “Aye,” she said. “Benjamin. He’s changed much in the past three months. He’s become his father’s son…stronger in character, I think. Did you know he invited me to come with him to Padua. Naturally I refused, but—”

  Sarah stopped. Such silly chatter. She clasped her shaking hands and said, “Go see what your Shakespeare wants.”

  “I love you, Mother.”

  “Go,” Sarah whispered. “Please.”

  Rebecca pulled a shawl over her shoulders, rushed downstairs, and opened the door to the gardens. He was waiting for her in the gazebo. They embraced. Shakespeare picked her up and twirled her in the air.

  “Blessed God, it’s been ages!” Rebecca kissed his lips. “Where have you been?”

  “Warwick.”

  Rebecca stiffened. She asked, “How does thy family fare?”

  “Thy gray eyes have turned green,” he said, smiling. “You flatter me, mistress.” He hugged her again, stroked her as he held her. “My love for my children does not diminish my consuming love for thee, beautiful lady.”

  Rebecca was suddenly ashamed of herself. Of course he should adore his children. She’d think him less of a man if he didn’t. “Then thy children are well,” she said with genuine interest.

  “Aye,” Shakespeare said. “Well they are, and older as well.”

  There was something disquieting about his voice, something that scared her. Rebecca gripped his hands and asked, “What is it, Willy? Why the sudden trip to Warwick?”

  “I longed to see my children,” he answered. “Five months is a long time to be away from them. My elder daughter is ten, almost of marriageable age. And my son has become such a handsome lad—bigger than his father ever was.” The pride in his eyes shone through the dark. “Time’s a constant drummer, though it seems to beat too slowly when we’re young, too fast when we’re old. We ripen and then we rot. Once I wanted immortality. I longed to have my words widely read and revered like those of Robert Greene—remembered from generation to generation. Now I realize that will never happen and I’m content to let my immortality live on through my children. If God permits thee good hap, have many children, Rebecca.”

  Shakespeare paused, then said, “I know the hour is ungodly. But I wanted to see thee before the cock’s crow, thy face framed with swirling mist that kisses thee with its jeweled droplets. It’s the way I choose to remember thee.”

  Rebecca’s lip began to tremble. Such finality in his voice. She said, “Why settle for my memory if thou havest me in the flesh?”

  He smiled cryptically and sadly. “It might be a while before I see thee again.”

  Rebecca’s heart began to crack. “Does…thy family call thee home for good?”

  Shakespeare hugged her tightly. “No, my sweet. Thou art my home.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Ask me no more questions, Becca.”

  Questions, Rebecca thought. He’s the one that had asked too many questions. And now he was in danger. Rebecca blurted out, “It has something to do with Harry’s murder—”

  “No more questions—”

  “Thou hast found him!”

  “No.”

  “Thou liest, Willy—”

  “Becca, I prithee—”

  “Thou knowest who the villain is and mean to pursue him, maybe even meet him come this morn. I’m coming with thee.”

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  “Never!”

  “Ah, thou admit I speak the truth!”

  “I admit nothing,” he said with anger. But his ire was directed more at himself than at her. He shouldn’t have come to say good-bye, he knew she would figure it out and she had. But there was that chance that something would happen to him, that he’d die without seeing her one last time. And he couldn’t bear the thought.

/>   “Willy, let me help thee,” she begged.

  “No—”

  “Please!”

  “Help me by staying out of my way, Becca. Help me with thy prayers—”

  “Prayers? Dear God, who is this fiend?” Rebecca became defiant. “I’m coming with thee.”

  For her own safety, Shakespeare had no choice but to leave her and walk away.

  “Willy,” she shouted, running after him. “Art thou going to allow me to walk with thee in my nightdress?”

  “Rebecca—”

  “Just listen to me for a moment,” Rebecca said. “Let me come with thee—”

  Shakespeare began once again to leave.

  “Just wait a moment,” Rebecca insisted, hanging onto his sleeve. He dragged her as he walked. She shouted, “Aye, Shakespeare, I give up! Thou art the victor. I’ll not accompany thee. But stop for a second. I want to give thee something before thou leavest.”

  “What?”

  “Wilt thou quit walking?” Rebecca asked. “My hand is cramped from squeezing thine arm.”

  Shakespeare pried her fingers from his wrist and said, “I must go, Becca. And thou cannot come with me.”

  “But—”

  Shakespeare said. “Becca, three people, one of them a girl your age, have died. This is not play adventure—”

  “Neither was rescuing Miguel, Willy.”

  “Thou art an incredibly brave woman and a superior swordsman—swordswoman. I will not debate that. But now is the time to think of thy father! He needs thee so much. His life depends on thee.”

  Rebecca had no answer. The gravity of what Shakespeare said left her speechless. Her father did need her. What if she were to die? What would become of Father? Of Mother? But Shakespeare needed her as well. She felt it in her heart. Torn. Always torn between love and duty. But for once the former would win out. She kept her thoughts to herself and said,

  “Wilt thou wait but a minute here? I want to give thee something for good luck—my own personal charm for thee.”

  Shakespeare thought, then nodded slowly. “Hurry.”

  Rebecca rushed in the house and quickly informed her mother that Shakespeare needed her for an emergency. Sarah didn’t question her daughter and Rebecca didn’t bother to clarify the situation. There wasn’t enough time. She gave Sarah a peck on the cheek, then quickly changed into her brother’s clothes.

  As hap would have it, the men were at Hector Nuñoz’s house discussing the trade company’s expansion into the Levant. Benjamin would spend the night there in the guest quarters. Rebecca kept her eye upon the window at all times. Shakespeare was keeping his word, still waiting for her. After all this time he was still so naive. Did he really think she would desert him? Once dressed, she stuck two daggers in her belt and held Ben’s rapier in her hand. It wasn’t as fine a weapon as Thomas’s blade—there was no way she could sneak into her cousin’s house and retrieve it now that Leah was back in England—but it would serve Shakespeare better than the one he carried. She threw her nightdress over her costume, her shawl over her nightdress, and ran back outside.

  “Here,” Rebecca said, presenting him with Ben’s sword.

  Shakespeare noticed the initials B. L. carved into the handle. “Whose is this?”

  “Take it!” Rebecca insisted. “It will bring thee good hap.”

  Shakespeare took the blade and gave Rebecca his weapon in return. He moved to embrace her, but Rebecca backed away.

  “Go,” she said. She didn’t want him to feel the blades under her gown. “Go, so thou may come back to me soon.”

  “A kiss?” Shakespeare asked.

  “I will die from longing if I kiss thy lips.” She pretended to cry. “Just go.”

  Die from longing? Rebecca? Shakespeare was puzzled. He said, “I love thee, Becca. Know that. I love thee!”

  “Away with thee!”

  Not a kiss good-bye, not even a hug? Shakespeare knew she was up to something. But he left because dawn was advancing faster than he was. After he had climbed the wall, Rebecca yanked off her dressing gown.

  Allez! she told herself. Vite!

  She followed him quietly, skulking behind brush, darting for cover of trees so he couldn’t see her even when he glanced over his shoulder, which was often. His walk was brisk and tense, his body rigid. Yet his footsteps hardly made a sound—a faint shuffle in the dirt. He was a man with a mission.

  A small crescent of moon floated in and out of an endless swirl of fog. The air was still and smelled of spring, of life about to bloom. Rebecca watched Shakespeare crawl through a hole in the city wall and enter London. She counted to twenty then dropped to her knees and crept through the same spot. Once inside, she swept her eyes over the empty streets but couldn’t see Shakespeare anywhere. Just the city: so dark, so quiet. Not a lighted window in sight. Her heart began to race. Suddenly a hand was clamped over her mouth, a dagger was at her throat. Terror gripped her bowels and gut.

  “See how easy it is to die?” Shakespeare asked her. “One slash and it’s over. It’s that easy! I saw Thomas do that to a man without losing the rhythm of his breath.” He loosened his grip on her and she squirmed out of his hold.

  “Damn thee!” Rebecca said.

  “I’ll walk thee back home.”

  “Damn thee, damn thee, damn thee!”

  Shakespeare took her arm and pushed her to her knees. “Crawl under the wall.”

  “No.”

  “Thou desirest me dead?”

  “Stop it!”

  Shakespeare said, “Rebecca, I cannot concentrate on him and thee at the same time! I have good reasons for wanting thee gone!” He exhaled and sat down on the ground. “Let’s go home.” He tried to act calm. “Now, eh?”

  Rebecca didn’t budge.

  “Mulish girl!” Shakespeare growled. “Thou’ll be my death!” He stood up and began to pace.

  Rebecca stood and said, “I’ll hide so he’ll see me not…. Who is he anyway?”

  Shakespeare sighed. He knew Rebecca’s tenacity by now. She’d press and press and he’d finally relent. He might as well tell her and save them both time and effort.

  “A kiss, first,” he said.

  She embraced him tightly, pressed her lips against his. His breath—so warm and sweet. She kissed him several times then forced herself out of his arms.

  “Who is he?” she repeated.

  Shakespeare said, “His name is Edward Mann—a moonstruck Puritan driven mad by the death of three wives. I encountered him on my first trip up North and he was of such little consequence that I forgot about him. But then his voice sounded in my dreams. A gravelly voice that I had heard several times before: the night the ghost appeared in my closet, the day we dueled…there was a Puritan preaching atop a box, damning everyone who was betting on us—”

  “I remember him!” Rebecca said. “He was dressed solely in black—thy black shadow!”

  “Aye, Puritans love black,” Shakespeare said. “He was also in London the day I took thee to the Mermaid. Thou laughed in his face—”

  “Yes! Yes!” Rebecca said. “He was going on about sinners and repentance.”

  Shakespeare nodded.

  “How could we have missed him!” Rebecca said.

  “How could I have missed him!” Shakespeare said. “I saw him three separate times yet never pieced together the face—or the voice—until the dream. Old Scottish daggers he threw at me. Mann spoke in a common accent of the English northerner, yet he told me to repent before the gloaming. Gloaming! He must be of Scottish blood, he must have crossed the border frequently. That’s where he came upon the daggers. And Puritanism is strong amongst the Scots. It seems so clear now that it must be he.”

  “What did he have against Harry?”

  “I’ll answer thy question with a question,” Shakespeare said. “How wast thou dressed on our excursion to the Mermaid?” Shakespeare didn’t wait for her response. “Dressed as thou art garbed at this moment. As a man…And that’s why he attacked thee
.

  “Harry was a good soul but loose of tongue when he drank in gross excess. There must have been a night when he had become exceedingly drunk and dallied with a certain whore—a stew named Cat. In his stupor he suddenly became weepy—I’ve seen him in that state diverse times. He started declaring to the whore his love for a certain man, a priest—”

  Rebecca broke in, “I know. Harry was a Catholic and this Puritan, Mann, hated those of the Papist religion—”

  “No, no, no,” Shakespeare said. “Aye, Mann detested Harry because he was a secret Catholic. But half the town of Hemsdale is composed of secret Catholics. That’s why Mann preaches there. He’s trying to make them repent for their evil, idolatrous ways. If he killed Harry for being a Catholic, he would have killed many more a long time before.”

  “Why, then?” Rebecca asked.

  Shakespeare said, “Harry must have drunkenly confessed to the stew that he and the priest were bound in a special way that went beyond the usual spiritual father-son relationship. Cat misunderstood Harry’s love for the priest. She thought that Harry had lain with him, and told the entire town rumors to that effect. In fact, what Harry had meant was that the priest and he were father and son by blood.”

  “What?” Rebecca whispered.

  “It’s the truth. The Jesuit’s own lips told me as much.”

  “Harry was a bastard?”

  Shakespeare nodded. “For all the world to see, Harry was the legitimate son of Lord Chesterfield. But only his mother knows for sure, eh?” Shakespeare leaned against the wall. “But Mann didn’t kill Harry because he was a bastard. Mann killed Harry because he mistakenly thought that Harry had lain with the priest, that Harry was a buggerer. To lay with a whore is a sin, but to lay with a man is a grievous sin punishable by death.”

  Rebecca curled up against Shakespeare’s chest. “Then Mann thought thou wast a buggerer as well, because I was with thee dressed as a man—a boy, actually.”

  “Yes,” Shakespeare said. “The first few times, Mann merely wanted to cease my inquiries about Harry—to warn me away from him. The dagger at the duel, the bump on my head in the middle of the night—nothing mortal. But after he saw me making merry with thee, he wanted us both killed—according to God’s law.”