The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  Shakespeare stood up and watched Mackering frantically trying to yank the dagger out. In a last desperate attempt, the uprightman reached behind his head and tried to push the blade out from the back end, succeeding only in impaling his injured hand on the dagger point.

  Shakespeare walked over to Mackering, placed his hands on the uprightman’s chest and pushed him down.

  “Good morrow, Georgieboy,” he said.

  Mackering lay still at Shakespeare’s feet, the muddy, peagreen orbs now rolled back so only the whites were visible.

  “Oh my God!” Rebecca groaned. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” She placed her hand over her mouth. “I’m going to be sick.”

  Shakespeare quickly snatched up as many weapons as he could and said, “Through the wall!”

  “I’m going to be sick!” Rebecca wailed.

  Shakespeare pushed her down, shoved her through the wall. He followed, and once on the other side, watched her vomit.

  “We must get home,” Shakespeare said.

  “They’ll come for me!” Rebecca said, gasping. She dropped onto her stomach and clutched the wet earth. “They’ll charge me with murder—”

  “Listen to me!” Shakespeare pulled her to her feet. She lost her balance, felt her head go black.

  “Up, damn thee!” Shakespeare slapped her across the face. “Listen to me!”

  “I’ll hang.” Rebecca sobbed. “I’ll hang, I’ll hang, I’ll hang—”

  “No one will ever know!” Shakespeare said. “No one saw thee. No one saw me!”

  She sucked in her breath, shuddered and retched. When the heave passed, she said in a small voice,

  “Thou art certain?”

  “Quite!” Shakespeare tried to bring Rebecca to her feet. “We must get home, Becca! Soon the roads will be clogged with people. Walk! I prithee, my love, walk! Walk for me!”

  But her knees buckled.

  Shakespeare hoisted her over his healthy shoulder and began to run. His breath was short, his legs weak.

  “The dagger!” Rebecca suddenly screamed. “They’ll trace me through the dagger—it’s Benjamin’s! It has his initials on it. My God, Willy, what will I do?” She sobbed. “They’ll come for him, they’ll come for me. I’ll hang, I’ll hang, I’ll hang with my father!” Her body shook wildly, her arms flailed about.

  “Stop fighting me, damn it!” Shakespeare screamed. He could no longer carry her. His injured arm was too weak, his shoulder too sore. His back gave out and he was forced to lower her to the ground. She dropped onto her stomach and writhed about like a snake in agony.

  Shakespeare looped his hands under her arms and pulled her up.

  “Becca, we’re covered in blood. We must keep going! We’ve got to get out of these clothes!”

  “They’ll find me through the dagger!” she cried.

  “I’ll go back and get it!” Shakespeare said. “But thou must go home now—”

  “Don’t leave me!”

  “Becca, listen—”

  “Don’t leave me!” Rebecca screamed.

  “Stow thee, damn it!” Shakespeare screamed back and slapped her.

  Rebecca reeled backward but quieted.

  Blessed silence. Shakespeare took a deep breath and withdrew the weapons from his belt. He held them up to the dawn’s light and said, “There is thy brother’s dagger…wait. I have two of them, in fact.”

  “I brought two,” Rebecca said.

  “Then I have them both…Here is thy brother’s sword. And here are all of my weapons, God be praised.”

  Rebecca said nothing, listened to her panting breaths. She covered her mouth.

  “Thou must…” Shakespeare exhaled and took another deep breath. “Thou must have killed Mackering with Mann’s dagger. Picture it, Rebecca. Mackering and Mann—the sinner and the redeemer—locked in a hand-to-hand combat to the death. Mann’s dagger aimed at Mackering’s throat. Mackering frees an arm and loops it around Mann’s body. At the same instant that Mann plunges his blade into Mackering’s neck, Mackering stabs Mann in the back. They killed each other, Becca! Repeat it! They killed each other!”

  Rebecca looked at Shakespeare, confused.

  “They killed each other! Say it!” Shakespeare commanded.

  “They killed each other.”

  “Yes. And no one will know differently, if no one sees us drenched in blood. Dawn is upon us. People are up. They will see us covered in blood, Becca. They will see my wounds.” Shakespeare stuffed the weapons back in his belt. “We’ve got to get to thy house.”

  “Wounds?” Rebecca looked at Shakespeare and gasped. “My God, thy shoulder and arm—”

  “These scratches are far from mortal inflictions, but they’re bloody,” Shakespeare said. “Even the most doltish watchmen would notice them. We’ve got to get home, Becca, home! We must burn these clothes. Give me thy hand. Canst thou walk now?”

  “Aye.”

  Shakespeare muttered “merciful God” and took her hand. They began the walk to the Lopez estate. A minute later they broke into a run and didn’t stop until they were at the gatehouse. Minutes later they stripped naked and bathed clean, their clothes turning to ashes in the Great Hall’s fireplace.

  Chapter 60

  Mackering dead.

  The news was shouted about Paul’s, spread from stall to stall at the Cheape.

  Killed by a fanatic Puritan.

  London’s sentiment: good riddance.

  For many reasons Shakespeare and Rebecca felt it best if they lived apart. The Lopez estate had been besieged by gawkers and hecklers since Roderigo’s arrest. If just one person had seen them running away, connected them to Mackering’s murder, dire consequences would result. As much as Rebecca’s heart wanted him to stay, her wits warned her of what could happen if he remained at the Lopez manor house.

  Tearfully they went their separate ways—during the day. Shakespeare went back to his closet, Rebecca visited him in the deepest hours of the night. She traveled alone, unguarded by her brother or cousins or Miguel, but she no longer felt the fear that once had plagued her solo treks. She’d become inured to nighttime shadows, apathetic to drunken laughter, to echoing shrieks. Armed with Miguel’s rapier, she knew she could defend herself, knew she must and would survive.

  Shakespeare’s lovemaking was nourishment for her troubled soul, balm for muscles made tight from family obligations. Rebecca’s days were filled with endless demands, minute details, each one necessary for the plan to work. One couldn’t forget anything. Anything! But she would not complain—not to her lover, not even to herself. There was work to be done. Lots of work.

  And so little time.

  Shakespeare had put off the visit, his mind trying to think up the proper words. But they wouldn’t come. Finally, four days after Mackering’s death, he forced his feet into Margaret Whitman’s tenement. Harry’s story was not an easy tale to tell. Selecting his words carefully, Shakespeare recounted the story, awkwardly informing Margaret of all she needed to know but leaving out certain facts that he thought would upset her. Margaret’s reaction was strange. Though it had been her idea to find her husband’s murderer, she no longer appeared interested in his story or its bloody conclusion.

  “It’s late,” was all she said.

  Margaret had become old and bony, the skin underneath her chin hanging like a turkey wattle. Her eyes were as dull as scratched glass. Her hands held red, raw fingers, her knuckles were misshapen nodes. Shakespeare took her hand and kissed the dry, scaly skin. He asked if there were anything else she wanted to know, and Margaret shook her head.

  “Then I’ll be going,” Shakespeare responded.

  As he stood to leave, Margaret called his name.

  “Aye?” Shakespeare answered.

  “Times have been good to you, Willy?” she asked.

  “I’ve been well,” he responded.

  She paused, looked down at her feet. “Have you any spare coins, then?”

  Without speaking, Shakespeare han
ded her a sovereign.

  She didn’t bother to thank him as she closed the door behind him.

  Returning to his closet, he felt melancholy. He lit a fire and gazed out of his window, hoping he might see Rebecca. Though charcoal skies had hooded Londontown, it was too early for her to visit. A nightingale began her sweet song, the composition immediately plagiarized by a mockingbird. Shakespeare’s eyes fixed on the empty street below. Life was a black page written in invisible ink, a tale all told, just waiting to be deciphered. He thought of Harry, of his unrestrained drunken laughter, of his weeping—sad melodies intoned by a righteous man who had never fulfilled his earthly dreams.

  Shakespeare peered out the window for over an hour, then lay upon his pallet and closed his eyes.

  Dreams haunted his wits. Disturbing reveries made suddenly sweet by a mellifluous voice from Heaven singing him words of gratitude.

  Sweet dreams, my friend. Sweet dreams and may God bless.

  He slept in peace.

  Chapter 61

  Shakespeare arose the next morning at dawn, fresh and whole, but lonely. There had been no shadows, no nightmares, but no Rebecca either. Diamonds of sunlight dappled the rushes of his floor. He dressed quickly and set out to the Lopez house, hoping her absence wasn’t an evil portent.

  But it was.

  A large crowd had gathered on the front lawn of the Lopez estate in Holborn, more people than usual. Shakespeare pushed his way through the mass but was stopped at the gatehouse by one of the Queen’s men, a short man with a serious expression. He held a halberd.

  “Back,” ordered the guard.

  “What news?” Shakespeare asked.

  The halberdier ignored him. Shakespeare started to step forward but was blocked by the spear.

  “I said back!” snapped the guard.

  Shakespeare pivoted and repeated the question to the person directly behind him—a fair-complexioned commoner wearing a black cloak.

  “They arrested the whole lot of them,” the commoner explained.

  Shakespeare turned ashen.

  “Looks like they’re all going to the gallows.” The commoner snickered. “Justice is served, the filthy Jews.”

  “When?” Shakespeare said.

  “Sir?”

  “When?” Shakespeare repeated, shouting this time. “When were they arrested?”

  “I know not,” the commoner said. “Why are you shouting at me, sir?”

  Shakespeare didn’t answer.

  A young gentleman standing to Shakespeare’s right said, “I heard the Queen’s men came last night. Cleared them out before dawn.”

  The commoner wiped his nose on his cloak and said, “They already hung the first one at dawn.”

  “Hung?” Shakespeare asked. “Who was hung?”

  “Not the dog Lopez,” answered the gentleman. “The other dog, Lopez’s conspirator.”

  “De Gama,” the commoner said.

  “Yes,” the gentleman said. “De Gama. They hung him at six in the morning. Lopez is next, tomorrow at dawn. That should be a goodly one…. God save the Queen.”

  Shakespeare felt his heart hammering. He asked, “Where is the family now?”

  “Which family?” asked the commoner.

  “The others who were arrested!” Shakespeare said. “Are they at Westminster?”

  The gentleman shrugged, then stared at him suspiciously. “What are they to you?”

  “Aye,” said the commoner. “Why are you so interested in the family? Are you one of them?”

  Shakespeare looked down at the ground, then raised his head and faced two sets of hostile eyes.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

  The gentleman said, “Thank God for your most fortunate hap, my goodfellow.”

  “I’m not family,” Shakespeare said. “But as God is my witness, I should have been.”

  He turned on his heels and left them gaping.

  After making frantic inquiries that took up the greater part of the afternoon, he discovered that all the converso community had not been arrested. They’d been expelled from their homes during the night, all their property and land confiscated by the crown. A clerk at Westminster had said the Jews were to be deported, but his knowledge had been scant with details.

  Good Queen Eliza, Shakespeare ruminated with sadness. Rebecca had much gratitude in her heart for her ruler, her father’s temporary redeemer. But all of Eliza’s kind feelings for Rebecca, all of her doubts about Lopez’s guilt, could not prevent her from bending to the will of her people. Two stays of execution were all that could be tolerated. Ever since Lopez’s trial at Guildhall, England had demanded a traitor’s execution at Tyburn for the hapless doctor.

  Lopez must be hung, the masses had cried. He was a conjurer and a poisoner. He was a Spaniard at heart, plotting with the fiendish Philip against the great Gloriana. He was a wolfish Jew.

  The Queen had signed Lopez’s death warrant long ago. Now her people were demanding that she make good on her promise.

  But though the doctor might be guilty of his crime, the daughter was not! Shakespeare was determined to save his lover. He searched the city for Rebecca. A fruitless effort since no one knew for certain where the Jews had gone.

  At least she was well hidden, wherever she was.

  Thank God.

  He returned to his closet at sundown, exhausted from his travails.

  Lopez’s execution. Tomorrow at dawn.

  They would be there. Shakespeare would be there as well.

  Maybe he’d see her again.

  Maybe not.

  He slumped into his desk chair, grabbed air, opened his fists.

  Nothing. Gone.

  A Sisyphean love. Forever doomed. Rebecca…a painful memory.

  He closed his eyes and thought of her. Of their bodies entwined under soft, warm sheets, of honeyed kisses and velvet embraces.

  It had been so real yesterday, but now it was just a dream. Yesterday was far away.

  Deep melancholia seeped into his bones, stabbed his heart. Yet a tiny speck of light managed to shine through his blackened soul. Maybe he would find her. Maybe he could see her again, talk to her, hold her.

  Maybe.

  Just maybe.

  Chapter 62

  The mob had been congregating in the streets before dawn. Roderigo heard the shouts and curses before streaks of sunlight penetrated the cold, sour air of the prison. He was reciting the Shma when the guards opened the door to his cell. He continued praying as they tied his hands around his back, refusing to stop even as he was pushed down the staircase of the Salt Tower. He fell on his side, was kicked in the ribs by a beefeater, then pulled to his feet and dragged to a boat docked at Traitor’s Gate.

  Shma Yisroel, Adonai Elohenu, Adonai Ehad.

  The essence of the religion for which he lived. For which he was about to die.

  Hear oh Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one.

  Our God.

  Adonai.

  He boarded the boat that carried him west to Tyburn. It docked ten minutes later. Heavily guarded, Roderigo was taken off the boat and walked to a wheeled cart.

  The guards opened rank, and rotted food was thrown in Roderigo’s face.

  He hardly noticed, his body and soul still immersed in prayer.

  The guards bound his feet, then placed him supine upon a burlap sling attached to the back of the cart. They bound him onto the sling.

  Roderigo kept praying.

  Did Adonai hear his prayers? he wondered.

  Did He hear his prayers even as the sling was dragged upon the ground?

  As mud splattered upon his face? As he was pelted with slop?

  As his bare feet were scraped against the cobblestones and turned bloody raw?

  As his head was smashed against the ground, as rocks were hurled at his brow, as his ribs were bruised by swift kicks?

  Amid all the curses and pain, did Adonai hear his prayers?

  A dog ran up beside him, growling, b
aring its teeth. A moment later sharp canine fangs sank into his shoulders. The spectators cheered. The guards waited a moment before shooing the heroic beast away.

  Somebody exclaimed that the dog was now infected with the blood of a Jew and should be killed.

  Another agreed.

  People shouted,

  Curse the Jewdevil!

  Poisoner!

  Slayer!

  The Devil’s creature!

  God be thanked, Essex had caught the Devil.

  God save the Queen!

  More slop dumped; this time in Roderigo’s eyes. Burning, burning.

  Eyes open, eyes closed. The same nightmare.

  He thought of Teresa’s tale, how her faith had saved her from burning in the pyre.

  Shma Yisroel…

  The cart continued its trail westward.

  Out of the city of London.

  Into Westminster.

  More people.

  More pain.

  More stink.

  To the gallows of Tyburn.

  Roderigo continued to pray, his faith stronger than ever.

  The site was black with people pushing, shoving, shouting, cursing. Rotten smells: everything around Tyburn stunk of decay and death. Shakespeare sat upon a rise overlooking the field. He’d been looking for Rebecca for an hour, but all he could see were ugly faces lusting for blood.

  None of the Lopez family was there. At least, none stood by the gallows.

  Where were they? Surely they had not abandoned their kinsman during his most desperate hour of need.

  Shakespeare continued to search the mob with his eyes.

  Spectators were still arriving. Executions drew big audiences. But this one was exceptionally large considering the condemned was not nobility. They had come out in droves because it had been discovered that Lopez was a secret Jew.

  A secret Jew, his daughter a secret Jewess. It didn’t matter to Shakespeare. He loved her still. He had to touch her again. He ached for her—his gut burning with the agony of loss.