The Quality of Mercy (27 page)

Shakespeare took a deep breath. “I owe you an explanation, and I hope you think this one not too daft, but the night before the fateful day of our duel, I was visited by a spirit that claimed to be my deceased mentor. He hit me on the head and laced my sack with sleeping potion.”

“God’s blood, what did the spirit want?”

“It’s a long, long tale,” Shakespeare said, waving his hand into the air. “When I woke up in the morning, my ordinarily rational thoughts were tumbled. Then I saw you standing in the pit… as a man. I swore I remembered you as a woman at the funeral of my mentor. Illogically, methought you must have been a witch, the evil spirit that had visited me the previous night.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “I assure you I am no witch.”

“I am assured.”

“But I confess to my prevarication. You did see me at the cemetery that day.”

“Who died?” Shakespeare asked. “Or is it I who now overstep the bounds of decency?”

Rebecca shook her head. “Twas my intended, may God be with him.”

“Rest be to his ashes,” whispered Shakespeare. “How did he succumb to his demise?”

“He was mur—” Rebecca stopped herself. “He… fell ill to Black Death. I must be gone—”

Shakespeare grabbed her arm. “He was
murdered
?”

“No,” Rebecca protested.

But Shakespeare knew it was a lie, and it excited him. Maybe their meeting at the cemetery wasn’t a coincidence. As unlikely as it appeared, maybe there was some kind of connection between the two murders. He said, “Tell me the truth, fair one. How he was slain?”

“
Now,
good man, you’ve crossed the line marked decency.”

“Now bad manners have reason. I buried my friend, but someone else nailed the coffin. Harry was murdered.”

“Many murders happen in this city. It’s a haven for the lawless.”

“So you admit your intended was murdered.”

Rebecca said nothing.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Shakespeare said.

She remained silent.

“What if the murders were done with the
same
hand?” asked Shakespeare.

“My intended was not killed in London.”

“Neither was Harry… my friend whom I buried,” said Shakespeare excitedly.

“My intended was not killed in this country.”

Shakespeare said nothing, felt his stomach drop. Two separate, unrelated murders. Nothing unusual. He wasn’t sure why he was disappointed, but he was. Maybe he longed to be connected to this woman by something tangential. Any excuse to see such a face again.

“My lips are loose today,” sighed Rebecca. “My father shall inter me if he finds out what I’ve told you.”

“You’ve no worry about that. I’m honorable.”

A moment of silence passed.

Rebecca asked, “Where was Harry murdered?”

“On the open road… up North.”

Rebecca noticed his face had become mournful. “You loved him dearly.”

Shakespeare said, “Yes, I loved him dearly. I’ve been trying to discover his slayer.”

“Any thoughts as to whom he may be?”

“A highwayman has been suggested,” Shakespeare said.

Rebecca heard doubt in his voice. “And you think not?”

Shakespeare said, “I think it could be anyone, from the most insignificant to the most sublime.” He smiled. “Even you are not above suspect.”

Rebecca returned his smile, but Shakespeare became suddenly grave.

“I
need
to find Harry’s slayer, so his soul may be put to rest. Yet the ghost that visited my closet warned me to arrest my inquiry.”

“The same one that hit you.”

“Yes.”

“It spoke to you first?”

“Aye.”

“Then it hit you.”

“Exactly.”

“Then perhaps you were not visited by a ghost. Rather, you were visited by Harry’s killer disguised as a ghost.”

“My thoughts, fair lady.”

“Couldn’t you distinguish between a ghost and a man dressed as a ghost?”

“In daylight it would have been easy. But remember that my mind had been made sleepy.”

“Poor man.”

Shakespeare regarded her face. Her eyes were teasing. A small smile was upon her lips. He felt a sting in his loins.

She said, “And has the spirit dampened your spirit?”

“Not a whit. I intend to resume my inquiries with much vigor. And now that the theaters are closed I haven’t the former constraints of time.”

“Have you had any hap in your search for your friend’s murderer?”

“I visited the North. Harry was last seen in a small burg called Hemsdale.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Neither had I until this whole thing happened. It’s an ordinary hamlet with its array of colorful people. None seemed like murderers. Harry had last been seen there. But instead of mingling with Hemsdale’s inhabitants, he’d been seen quarreling with London’s most feared uprightman—”

“George Mackering.”

“The very one,” said Shakespeare.

Rebecca nodded. “He’s an expert with the rapier, Shakespeare. Almost as good as my cousin, Thomas. In fact, twas Thomas who first spoke of him. They used to sport together years ago when Thomas was fifteen. My cousin bested him easily even then.”

“Mayhap your cousin would like to go after Harry’s slayer,” said Shakespeare.

“You think Mackering killed Harry?”

“I don’t know. But I’d like to find the ruffian. He’s the only one who can tell me of Harry’s last days.”

“Shall I ask my cousin about Mackering for you?” Rebecca said.

Shakespeare said, “No, I pray you don’t. Best if you keep your distance from the unclean affair.”

“It’s no bother, Shakespeare,” Rebecca said. “Besides, I owe you for my life which was once in your hands.”

“Your life was never in my hands, Mistress Rebecca Lopez. It was my error in the first place that caused us both so much grief.” He brushed his fingers against her arm. “Yet I am glad it happened and we’ve had a chance to meet.”

Rebecca blushed, then said, “The alchemy of turning bad hap to good. Had you not found me, I would have searched for you.” She added quickly, “For my cousin’s weapons, I mean.”

“Speaking of weapons…” Shakespeare pulled out another dagger. “Do you recognize this? It was thrown at my chest after our duel.”

Rebecca inspected the poniard. “It’s not one of mine — my cousin’s, I mean.”

“I thought as much,” Shakespeare said. “But it was worth a try.”

“Then someone is still after you.”

“I think so.”

“The midnight ghost?”

Shakespeare shrugged.

“At least allow me to give the dagger to my cousin for you?” she asked. “If anyone can identify it, Thomas can.”

Shakespeare thought a moment. “Only if you promise me not to mention Mackering. The name will arouse too much curiosity. It’s not good for you or me.”

“Agreed.” Rebecca looked at the blade again. “It’s an old weapon.”

Shakespeare said, “Tempered during the first years of the Tudor reign… see the wear and the rust… at least one hundred years old. And it’s not the craftsmanship of a true sword maker — the blade is too imbalanced, the honing too crude.”

Rebecca regarded the dagger, gripped the handle and held the blade to the sunlight. “I shall take this to Thomas and report back to you.”

Another chance to see her. Shakespeare felt the sting again. He knew he should be ashamed of himself — a middle-aged man with a wife and children, panting like a dog over his bitch. But he couldn’t help what his head was feeling.

He tried to speak calmly. “Where shall we meet?”

“Not in my garden,” Rebecca said. “How did you sneak in here?”

“I climbed the fence. All my leaps on stage have sculpted me strong legs.”

“Well, we can’t meet here anymore,” Rebecca said. “I’m to be betrothed to another. Your presence alone with me in my father’s garden would impugn the honor of my newly intended.”

It was Shakespeare’s turn to stare. He asked, “And who had the good fortune to ensnare such a woman?”

“The brother of my first beloved.”

“Is it not a sin?” Shakespeare asked.

“Not among my—” Rebecca cursed her mouth. “My father thinks not.”

“I wish you much good fortune.”

“Thank you.”

Silence. Eventually Rebecca said,

“Shall we meet at Paul’s?”

“You may go out in public unescorted?”

She smiled. “If I am dressed as a man.”

“Your father allows you to do such things?”

Rebecca said nothing.

“I thought not,” Shakespeare said. “Yet I remember well your footwork. You can defend yourself. So Paul’s it will be Saturday at the noon hour.”

“Not Saturday,” Rebecca said. She dare not profane her sabbath, especially for such a whimsical tryst.

“Is Monday more suitable?” Shakespeare asked.

“Yes.”

“Monday, then. At Paul’s. I’ll buy you fare and drink.”

“I shall be there.” Rebecca studied the blade again. “Shakespeare, this is not only rust on the blade. It’s
blood
as well. See how easily this spot peels off. And these spots over here. They’ve not eaten into the metal as rust does.”

Shakespeare grabbed the dagger. “You’ve the eyes of a hawk, mistress, and a keen mind to match. I pity anything you desire as prey.”

Rebecca felt herself go hot again, chided herself for blushing like an unschooled milkmaid.

“Simply my eye has seen dried blood diverse times,” she said. “I often clean my father’s surgery knives.”

“Aye, it’s blood,” Shakespeare said. “
Whose
blood, is the question.”

“What kind of man does not keep his weapons clean?” Rebecca asked.

“A man who cares not if his weapons are lost in his victims’ hearts.”

June fifteenth, a fortuitous day according to the stars, marked the official engagement of Miguel Pedro Nuñoz and Rebecca Anne Lopez. The feast and festivities were held in the Lopez’s Great Hall of Holborn. Course upon course was laid on long wooden tables — beef and mutton stewed with figs and walnuts, capons and grouse stuffed with barley, oats, and wildflowers, red deer roasted in an open pit, kid boiled in spirits, garlic duck baked with apples and apricots, veal and venison braised with honey, and whole white-fleshed cod poached in cider.

A notable absence of pork, one nobleman pointed out.

Platters of vegetables accompanied the meats — cucumbers, wild greens and flowers, cabbage, turnips, radishes, and potatoes imported from Portugal. After the flesh and roots came dessert plates heaped with sweets. There were flowers of marchpane, castles of sugar bread, confits, and fruit suckets, and gingerbread men topped with caps of sugared violets. A center table held gold trays of gellifs molded into diverse mythical shapes — dragons, minotaurs, centaurs, and the virginal unicorn. Side tables were weighted down with huge silver washing bowls filled with nut-brown ale for dunking roasted crabs — apples singed in fire until they sizzled with sugary juices.

And how copiously flowed the spirits. Sack, port, and the finest wines — premium vintage theologicum, clergy wine, as well as the heavier Italian and lighter French varieties — sloshed in tankards and heavy pewter pots. The women imbibed lighter drink — beer, ale, cider, perry, and for the especially delicate stomach, dulcet mead of honeycomb and water.

Fifty extra servants, hired to accommodate the hundreds of guests, carried away silver trays and wooden trenchers of untouched food and flung it at the huddles of beggars gathered outside the kitchen door. The poor pounced upon the remains, ripping flesh off bones like vultures ravishing a carcass, stuffing their mouths until their cheeks grew to pouches.

The banqueting lasted late into the evening. Torches were lit, and armfuls of seasoned logs were dumped into the central pit. The wood was consumed in a blaze of God’s wrath, and the crowd cheered each sudden crack of wood, each exploding plume of smoke.

At the conclusion of the meal began the entertainment. The first act consisted of jugglers tossing into the air knives and axes, catching them as easily as a child does a tennis ball. The final feat had them balancing halberds and pikes upon their chins and feet while dancing on their hands. Next were the contortionists, squeezing their bodies into foot-diameter barrels. Then came the tumblers and fire eaters.

The crowd grew restless from lengthy sitting; a quintet of musicians was summoned for dancing. They played upon viole da gambas, soft recorders and hautbois, pipes and tabors, and the ear-piercing fife. The night was culminated by the performance of Augusto Toon — the finest balladeer in the Isle. Strumming on his lute, the contratenor sung treacle-sweet songs of love, his compositions written specifically for the intended couple.

Rebecca bowed her head demurely as the balladeer sang.
Gods, to endure such an ordeal!
Her father was drunk, her mother nearly overcome with exhaustion. Her cousins, who had been feuding vocally all evening, sat opposite one another cooling the heat of their fierce words. Marry, a duel betwixt the Añoz brothers had nearly been challenged, and when Dunstan’s wife — poor, fat Grace — tried to intercede in the name of family peace, she was immediately slapped in the face by Dunstan. Finally Jorge insisted the men end their childish spat, lest the power of the spirits change knight into knave.

And then there was
Benjamin
. Rebecca’s brother had come in from Venice sprouting healthy color and much confidence. The reason for his merry countenance was on his arm — the Countess of Pinario, a widow twelve years his senior, a woman of much lineage and little money. She was beautiful, Rebecca thought, in that special way that drove young men daft and their mothers equally as mad. Piles of blond hair topped a smooth, fair face. Peeking from heavy lashes were flashing blue eyes, wide and innocent from afar, hard and cold from up close. Her lips formed an eternal pout and were colored like cranberries. The stomacher of her dress framed a tiny waist, but the bodice of the gown supported white melons that gently shook as she walked.

Rebecca’s mother was horrified by Ben’s choice, her father was initially appalled as well, until the countess smiled at him in a certain ill-advised manner. Roderigo had danced a galliard with her, and Benjamin was most pleased that Father had found his woman friend charming. During a pavane, Rebecca’s mother had pulled her aside and wept openly in her arms. Roderigo had sinned with diverse wenches over their years of marriage, Mother had confessed, but this one — this
countess
— would cause an open scandal. Could not Rebecca speak some proper words to Father in order to avert such an event?