The Quality of Mercy (44 page)

“The papers were legal?” Shakespeare asked.

“Some were legal. When we couldn’t afford to buy them — Amsterdam often charged us exorbitant prices — my aunt, my mother, my cousins… and I would forge them.”

Shakespeare shook his head. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Miguel has not returned from his latest assignment,” Rebecca exclaimed. “I would have thought nothing of it — the length of his delay is not extraordinary — but since the arrest of my father, I’m worried that de Andrada has sold him to the Spanish. If Miguel is caught, he’ll be brought to trial in Spain under the jurisdiction of the Holy See. They’ll
torture
him to death… like the Star Chamber.” She shuddered. “I can’t bear… my God, I am weak without him!”

She started crying again, great tides of mournful sobs. At the mentioning of the Star Chamber, Shakespeare knew that though she talked of Miguel, her thoughts were with her father. At least with her betrothed, she could
do
something on his behalf. With her father she was pitifully helpless, her heart imprisoned with the man who had sired her. Filial love — a more powerful mover than the winds of heaven.

“Sweet lady of my heart,” Shakespeare said. “What dost thou want of me?”

“My cousins, Thomas and Dunstan, are on their way to Portsmouth to ascertain Miguel’s whereabouts. An hour after they left, I found a note amongst Miguel’s clothing, a scrap of paper with scribbling on it. Miguel often writes himself notes… lists. He’s very exacting. I found this one, along with several others, hidden in a doublet he left at my father’s home. But that’s irrelevant. What is important is that it mentioned the location of the ship. It was docked at Dover. Not Portsmouth,
Dover
.”

Rebecca grabbed her head. “I feel faint.”

“Sit,” Shakespeare ordered.

Rebecca complied. She said, “The plans must have been changed at the last minute and someone neglected to inform my cousins. I must meet up with them and tell them to go to Dover. But Willy, I’m weak, so scared to travel alone, afraid not for myself, but that I’ll fail to reach them, fail to reach Miguel and cause my betrothed harm. I need help, William. I need you to accompany me until I find my cousins. My uncles and brother are with my father; Miguel’s father is frantic with worry. My God, poor, poor Hector!”

Rebecca buried her head in her hands.

Shakespeare sighed, rubbed his chin. “You carry no bags, Becca. What preparations have you made for such an arduous journey?”

Rebecca knocked her forehead with her fist. “What an idiot God has made this stupid woman!”

“Worry not,” said Shakespeare. “I have all of what we require — completely packed and bundled, as the Fates would have it. Enough for just one to the North, but enough for two to travel the road south to Dover. How many horses did you bring?”

“Only one. A fine mare. She’s hidden outside the wall near Ludgate in a thick copse. I have her firmly tied and muzzled. I pray no one has discovered her.”

“We shall share her,” Shakespeare said. “How did you get through into the city? The gates close at nightfall.”

“England would do well to patch her armor. Many a crawl space dots her wall.”

Shakespeare dressed quickly. He threw Rebecca some rags and told her to tie them around the soles of her boots.

“Why?”

“They will muffle your steps.”

She nodded. When she was done, Shakespeare threw the bags over his shoulder.

“Leave us go,” he said.

The night was moonless and cold. Rebecca shivered underneath her frieze cloak and wished she had dressed her head in a thicker hat. But at least her legs were warm, housed in double-knitted woolen hose. She flexed her gloved fingers, which had stiffened in the chill, covered her mouth and blew warm air onto her hands and nose. Shakespeare lit a small candle, the flame highlighting his profile in orange. Wisps of hot breath curled about his nose and mouth.

“Do you know the way back to your horse?” he whispered.

“Aye.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“How did you avoid the watchmen and the rogues?”

“Good hap.”

He took her hand and said, “Lead me.”

“I came by way of the Cheape,” she said. “The gap in the wall lies between Newgate and Ludgate. I suggest we bypass Paul’s. Too many vagabonds lie in wait.”

Their bootsteps were silent as they tiptoed past darkened buildings that occasionally winked the flicker of a rush candle, past boarded-up booths and shops and dusky taverns whose dim light escaped through red lattice sashes. Their eyes were of little use, their ears their best defense, listening for sounds that could mean attack or arrest.

“Where did you learn to muffle your steps with rags?” Rebecca asked.

“I was a clever boy.”

“A thief?”

“No,” he whispered. “Just a child who couldn’t sleep at night… I hear something.”

Rebecca listened.

“An owl,” they said in unison, looking upward.

It rested on the peak of a thatched roof, as still as the eaves upon which it sat. Its hood was marbled with brown and white, its eyes carved from onyx. Shakespeare and Rebecca exchanged glances. Owls were evil omens. The bird hooted again, blinked, then spread its massive wings and flew away, hopefully taking its bad luck with it.

“This way,” Rebecca said.

They walked a few more minutes in silence. Shakespeare stopped suddenly.

“I hear something,” he said.

“What?” Rebecca asked. “I hear nothing.”

“Muffled steps — like our own.”

“Where?”

“Quick, over here,” Shakespeare said, jerking her behind the thick trunk of an oak. He blew out the candle and they held their breath.

There were three of them afoot — robbers dressed in coal black. Shakespeare’s eye caught the glint of a foot-long dagger one of them gripped in his hand. The trio passed the tree without a second glance.

Rebecca let out a gush of air.

“My God, that was close,” she said.

“It was.” Shakespeare relit his candle. “Which way now, m’lady?”

Rebecca whispered, “I can’t walk, I’m shaking too hard. I’m so scared.”

“You’re dressed as a man, think like one as well. Though the dark frightens the piss from your body, admit it not.”

Rebecca smiled. She inhaled deeply and said, “This way.”

They walked another half mile. Rebecca felt her body being drawn to his. She inched closer until she was under the protective tent of his arm.

“I’m sorry I bid you adieu so abruptly,” she whispered. “Without explanation. Twas a cruel thing to do. But I did it for family loyalty.”

“It was best,” Shakespeare said. “For my family loyalty as well.”

“Did you summer with your wife and children?”

Shakespeare suddenly found himself swallowing back tears. “No.”

Rebecca heard sorrow in his voice and became quiet.

So dark, so still, so silent.

A minute later she seized his arm and brought him to a halt. “Listen,” she whispered. “The growl of a wild animal.”

Shakespeare answered. “I hear it, too, though the sound is weak in ferocity.”

“What shall we do?”

“Circumvent the noise. Can you lead us another way?”

“I’ll try, but I might become confused in the dark.”

Shakespeare paused, then said, “The growl has disappeared. I don’t hear it anymore.”

“Perhaps the beast has left,” suggested Rebecca. “No. Wait. Now I hear the growling once more, louder than before.”

“Wait here,” Shakespeare said.

“Where are you going?”

“Just do as I say.”

Shakespeare walked a few paces forward, stopped, then motioned her with his hand to approach.

“Regard the centurion responsible for our city’s safety.”

A constable lay sleeping atop a pile of soft dirt, his thick cloak draped across his body, his hat over his eyes and nose. The neck of an empty bottle was clutched in his right hand, his breath escaping from the rim of his hat like smoke from the closed door of a burning room.

“How deeply I shall sleep at night knowing that London is protected by such honorable hands.” Rebecca pulled Shakespeare forward. “Come. We’re almost there.”

Fifteen tense minutes later they were on their hands and knees, crawling through a three-foot hole in the great city wall. Once on the other side, Rebecca leaped with happiness, took Shakespeare’s hand and ran with him to the thick underbrush where her horse was hidden.

She was still there.

Blessed be to God.

Shakespeare loaded the bags onto the horse. Rebecca mounted first, and he sat in back of her. With a firm jerk of the reins they rode off.

Rebecca felt his arms around her, guiding the horse with expertise. She immediately felt her heart slowing, her breathing become steady. They rode the first half hour in silence, both trying desperately to second-guess the direction of Rebecca’s cousins, listening for the beats of horses riding in tandem. They trotted through the open countryside, away from the houses and booths, far from the shops and taverns and churches. The vast landscape was filled with never-ending fields of grass and shrub sporadically interrupted by nestings of twisted oak. In the distance shadowed hills rose in the sky like rain clouds.

Alone.

After an hour of riding, the early morning moon had begun its ascent. Shakespeare used Diana’s light for guidance.

Rebecca spoke first.

“How is it that your bags were prepared for journey?”

“I was planning to go elsewhere.”

“To the North?”

“Aye.”

“Harry Whitman?”

“Aye.”

Rebecca asked what had happened with Whitman since they had last spoken. Shakespeare explained that much had happened but the news was best left for another time. Again, she asked him what had caused him to become so thin and pale. Shakespeare remained evasive and she didn’t press the issue. It was all she could do to keep herself calm. Ten minutes later Shakespeare said,

“You love your betrothed deeply.”

Rebecca turned around and nodded. “Not as a woman loves a man, but as a sister loves her brother.”

“Much sisterly love you show.”

Rebecca sighed, faced forward.

Shakespeare said, “Not the time for the green monster to appear, I know.”

Rebecca said, “You’ve no cause to be jealous of Miguel.”

They rode in silence for the next hour. Shakespeare kicked the horse’s flanks, urging her to quicken her pace. Finally, he summoned up the nerve to ask the question that had been plaguing him.

“Would I have had cause to be jealous of Miguel’s brother?”

Rebecca heard the doubt in his voice. “I did love him,” she said. “But never have I loved anyone as I love thee.”

“How I love thee,” Shakespeare whispered. “Pray, my love. Tell me how your first lover died?”

Rebecca swallowed. She explained how it was Raphael who had first performed Miguel’s work. The Spanish somehow intercepted him, sent him to the tribunals for being a
relapso
.

“Our entire family has been tried in effigy in Iberia. We’ve all been sentenced to die on the stake.”

Rebecca began to shed silent tears.

“They have told me that Raphael martyred himself, stabbed his heart with his dagger before the galleon docked, thus sparing his body the ungodly acts of the Holy See. I think they told me tales to make me feel lighter of heart…. I know not the truth. I care not to know.”

“Whom did you bury that day in the cemetery, then?”

“Some corpse with no kin, dead from the plague. Upon his death, my father snatched the fouled body from Bartholomew’s and assigned to him a certificate of death bearing Raphael’s name. My fiancé’s loss was the gain of a bubo-riddled pauper. At least someone received a proper burial.”

Shakespeare guided the horse to the right, over a field of wet mud. The animal slowed, dragged down by the thick muck. Shakespeare pressed the mare forward until once again they rode on firm ground — acres of land made silvery in the moonlight.

Enemies, Shakespeare thought. Everybody had them whether they be overt or hidden — a soldier’s sword at your throat, a madman’s knife in your back. Foes, plotting and planning destruction of one another, each with his own agenda. Putting prices on human heads as if they were beef cattle. Shakespeare hugged Rebecca and said,

“I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

She started to speak, but her voice cracked. She tried again. “I know—”

“Listen,” Shakespeare interrupted.

Hoofbeats.

Shakespeare pulled the horse to the left, dug his heels into the animal’s side and sent her flying. Her haunches were fluid, shiny and damp, her tongue protruding, her mane streaming in the wind of her gallop.

Rebecca pointed to two small outlines moving in the night.

“Over there,” she shouted.

Shakespeare cracked the reins and the animal raced with all its heart.

“It’s them!” Rebecca shouted, joyously. “Dunstan! Thomas!” The outlines kept going.

“Faster, you mother of a whore,” Shakespeare muttered to the horse.

“Dunstan!” Rebecca screamed. “Tommy!”

The outlines stopped.

“It’s Becca!” she shouted.

Her cousins turned around and waved.

“Becca,” they shouted back. “What news?”

“God is with us,” Rebecca said, crying.

“God is with us,” Shakespeare repeated. “Whose god it is, I know not. But some god is with us.”

Dunstan glared at Shakespeare. He said, “I cannot believe this!”

Rebecca said, “Dunstan, I—”

“What are you doing here, Becca?” asked Thomas.

“Miguel did not go to Portsmouth.”

Dunstan glowered at her, at Shakespeare.

“He knows about our bloodline, cousin,” said Rebecca. “I had to tell him.”

Dunstan buried his head in his hands. “Your father should have ripped out your throat with his surgery knives!”

Shakespeare started to speak, but Rebecca silenced him with a squeeze on his arm.

“I had no choice,” Rebecca explained. “I needed someone to ride with me, and Mother and I decided that telling Shakespeare—”

“Since when does your
mother
make decisions?” Dunstan said.