The Quality of Mercy (67 page)

Yes, yes!

The ring was given to Lopez as payment. But Lopez was a clever man and had given it to the Queen as a gift, showing him to be a man capable of much duplicity. But Her Majesty, the Queen, was too acute for the cunning Jew! She discovered its origins and gave it back to Rebecca at first opportunity.

Brilliant!

Twas unimportant what the code words of the letter actually meant, why the ring was in Rebecca’s possession. All that was necessary was that de Andrada persuade Essex.

The letter. He read it again. It went on to speak of Esteban Ferreira de Gama — the former Spanish smuggler of Jews — as the purveyor of the goods.

Was de Gama the new English connection now that Miguel Nuñoz was a cripple? Had to be.

If de Gama could be persuaded to bear false witness against Lopez, to say that the witch doctor was working for His Majesty against Her Majesty…

What would seduce de Gama to lie?

Not money, surely. The man was too much the gentleman to ruin his good name for gold. Not women as well. He was as faithful to his
esposa
as a lapdog — the stupid dolt.

Torture was the only alternative. Using the proper techniques, twas possible to get a man to say anything. De Andrada would request that Essex arrest de Gama at once, claiming he was Lopez’s accomplice. Then the skill of the torturers would take over and de Gama would confess Lopez’s evil plans.

De Andrada formulated his ideas on paper, then wrote a coherent letter to Essex. He ended the correspondence with:

All these actions must be employed with utmost haste lest grievous harm fall upon England’s Gloriana, her most virtuous and chaste Queen.

De Andrada dispatched the letter immediately to Essex through Big Jaw with the cracked knuckles, bypassing the lord’s own spy master, Antony Bacon. All that done, he finally allowed himself the luxury of sleep. When he awoke, his room was gray and cold. He lit a fire and hung a kettle over the flames, noticing a minute later that another tooth had fallen out of his decayed mouth. It lay on the floor among the rushes like a pitted pebble. Yet it bothered him not.

He had
evidence
— letter, ring, and a witness who, under torture, would testify against the witch doctor. Soon all of it would be resting in Lord Essex’s hands.

If Essex swallowed his lies, he would be back in England in a month — speaking a language that didn’t sound like guttural retching, in a warm bed under Lord Essex’s protection, his stomach full, his member plunging into the soft folds of a young wench — maybe even a virgin. Lopez would be hung as a traitor, his family destroyed.

Quickly, he posted the letter. If only Essex would believe such bald lies.

If only…

Essex sat upright in his desk chair and fingered the correspondence as if it were a string of rosary beads. The natural warm oil of his hands was smudging the exterior ink and melting the seal of the wax — de Andrada’s seal. Essex’s eyes peered across his desktop, his malevolent stare landing upon Big Albert. The giant-jawed servant dropped his eyes and squirmed under his lord’s scrutiny.

“And de Andrada had told you that the evidence was indisputable?” Essex said, leaning forward, elbow on his desk.

“Aye, m’lord,” said Albert. “He used the word indisputable.”

“Has he informed you of the contents of the letter?” Essex asked.

“Why no, m’lord,” said Albert. “Did you want him to?”

Essex picked up a silver bowl of ale and threw it at his servant. It whacked Albert in the stomach and drenched his gown and face. The servant didn’t flinch.

Essex said, “Of course I don’t want you to know the contents of the letter, you stupid dolt. I just wonder whether the weasel told you things that should have been kept secret.”

“He told me nothing, m’lord,” answered Albert.

“Save that the contents of this letter hold indisputable evidence against Dr. Roderigo Lopez.”

“Aye,” said Albert.

“Sit,” Essex said, pointing to a stool in the corner.

Albert obeyed. Essex walked over to the main hearth of the library and stoked the fire. His lodgings at Whitehall Palace were the largest of any nobility. His library was wood-paneled, the ceiling fresco overleafed with gold and silver. Others had to be satisfied with wee cells that barely had enough space for a desk and globe. But his was a huge chamber. It easily accommodated all of his books, two gold floor sconces three feet in diameter, a pair of marble statues dedicated to him by some peasant artist from the Royal Academy, three desks, two fireplaces, four globes, and an assortment of tables and chairs. In addition to the library, Essex’s quarters contained a comfortably sized sleeping chamber — its walls covered with silk arras — a separate wash and tub closet, two guest cells, and ample room for his staff.

Splendid lodgings reserved for the Queen’s favorite.

The bitch had softened her anger against him, and he was once again a person to be reckoned with at court. Yet he felt that others laughed at him behind his back.
Little pet Essex being scolded by his schoolmaster
— say, rather,
schoolmistress
. Gods, how he wished he could strangle them all — those well-fed, clean-faced asses who brayed.

They also laughed when Elizabeth had commanded him back home from the Spanish front. Though Essex carried himself proudly, always attired himself in the finest of dress and armed himself with the best of swords, others had snickered that he was naught but a castrated peacock displaying wounded feathers.

Lopez among them.

Marry, he’d love to kill the bastard dog of a Jew.

He sat back down at his desk and once again fingered the letter. With one fluid motion he broke the seal and pulled out the papers.

He read de Andrada’s letter.

He read Lopez’s letter to David.

He reread de Andrada’s letter, then studied all the correspondence carefully.

He frowned.

“Indisputable?” he muttered.

He took his quill, dipped it in the inkwell and began to scribble some notes as he reread de Andrada’s letter.

He put down his quill and rubbed his chin.

“Maybe,” he whispered.

He reread Lopez’s letter to D’Avila and raised his eyes.

Once again he began to scribble notes.

“Maybe,” he repeated. Louder. “Though I strongly doubt the verity of the weasel’s words, his implications might work indeed.” He clapped his hands together and studied the letters for an hour, scribbling notes, tearing them up, sighing, laughing, scowling. Finally he stabbed the quill into its holder, sat back and closed his eyes. He sat so quietly that his servant thought him asleep.

“M’lord?” Albert whispered.

“Quiet, you fool,” answered Essex without opening his eyes. “I’m thinking.”

Albert retreated back to the wall. Ten minutes later Essex opened his eyes and dipped his quill in a silver pot of ink. On the finest parchment he addressed a letter to his spy master. With confidence he wrote to Antony Bacon,

In haste, this morning, I have discovered a most dangerous and desperate treason. The point of conspiracy was Her Majesty’s death. The executioner should have been Dr. Lopez, the manner poison.

He sealed the letter, then regarded Albert, quaking in the corner.

“Dispatch this immediately to Master Bacon in Eton, Albert.”

Albert bolted up. “With assurity, m’lord.”

“I need not remind you of what discretion is required in this task.”

“No, m’lord. Not at all.”

“Well, then! Go!”

Albert left. Essex sat back in his chair. He smiled.

A week had passed since Fottingham last saw Shakespeare. Yet he wasn’t at all surprised when the player, carrying a leather bag upon his back, showed up at the threshold of his door.

“Back to London?” Fottingham asked.

Shakespeare nodded.

“Come in a moment,” boomed the alderman. “You’ve plenty of daylight left. My house is warm, my fare is plentiful and pleasing to the stomach. I was just about to dine. Do stay and tell me what you’ve discovered about Chambers’s murder this past week. Then I’ll tell you the whisperings about town.”

Shakespeare had just come to say good-bye, as good manners dictated. Yet the possibility of learning more drew him like bait. Realizing he’d probably have to give information to receive some in return, he weighed his decision. Curiosity won out. He said, “My horse stands uncovered outside. It’s raining heavily.”

“I’ll have one of the servants stable it,” said Fottingham. “Come in.”

Shakespeare said thank you, then entered the alderman’s home and dropped his bag on the floor. Fottingham called out the order to a blue-gowned boy, then said to Shakespeare,

“This is the second time in a week that you have mentioned your horse’s needs before your own. Care about animals, do you?”

“I’ve an affinity for dumb beasts.”

“Don’t we all?” said Fottingham.

Shakespeare smiled and said, “Harry Whitman hired me as stable boy for the fellowship when I first came to London. I was not overly familiar with the finer points of grooming, but I learned very quickly.”

Shakespeare thought back to his first visit with Harry. Whitman could have called his bluff immediately. But he hadn’t. Not until years later did he admit he’d known Shakespeare had been lying. It had been one of those frequent times where Harry’s drinking had turned him boisterous and unstable. It was hard to take him seriously.

You didn’t know a damn thing about horses when I took you on, did you, Willy?

Whitman slapped Shakespeare on the back loudly. The thwack caused men in the alehouse to turn around and laugh.

Not a whit,
Shakespeare said softly.

Harry let out a series of raucous guffaws.
You little cellar rat of a liar.

If you suspected me of lying, why did you hire me?

You looked able-bodied enough to do the job.

Why did you hire me, Harry?

Aw, what the devil. I admit it. It was the book. Most of the writing was… How shall I put this?

Whitman held his nose with one hand, fanned away imaginary fumes with the other. He burst into laughter.

It wasn’t that foul,
Shakespeare said.

It was rot!
Harry announced to anyone who had been listening.
But!
He had held his finger in the air.
But it contained two fine soliloquies, Willy. Two beautiful soliloquies. I’d never read anything quite so moving
.

Harry suddenly grew sentimental. There was moisture in his eyes. Had Shakespeare not escorted him out of the alehouse, he would surely have cried.

A week later, when Harry was sober, Shakespeare asked him the same question.

Whitman gave him a sad smile.

I have a soft heart for dreamers and you were as fresh as they come. Aye, I did recognize your talent. But I would have welcomed you even had you been a simpleton. Willy, my son, I know what it’s like to live with thwarted desires
.

Shakespeare heard the alderman talking.

“…long have you had the horse?” Fottingham said.

“The horse?” Shakespeare said. “It isn’t mine. Just a hackney. But it has served me well.”

“Sit,” the alderman repeated.

“Thank you, I will,” said Shakespeare.

Fottingham poured him a pot of beer. “Tell me what you know about Chambers.”

“He and the whore were murdered in the middle of the night,” Shakespeare said. “The girl was dealt with swiftly — her throat was slashed, her heart by a single stab of a dagger. Chambers was stabbed repeatedly. His throat was also slashed.”

Fottingham paled. “God in heaven! Where have you learned such horrible detail?”

“I told the magistrate that I was an eminent physician from London,” said Shakespeare. “He allowed me to examine the bodies. I even signed papers certifying them dead.”

Fottingham stared at him.

Shakespeare drank the pot of beer and said, “I’m quite well regarded as an actor.”

“You
signed
death papers?”

“They asked me to perform the honors,” said Shakespeare. “Besides, the cause of demise was obvious.”

Fottingham said thoughtfully, “I suppose it was. Was any murder weapon found?”

Shakespeare shook his head no.

Fottingham asked, “Did not
someone
hear them cry out at night?”

“Not a single gentleman claims to have heard a sound,” Shakespeare said. “Chambers’s cell was at the end of a long hallway. Besides, I think the murderer immediately slashed their throats. It prevented them from screaming for help—”

“My God!”

“Horrible,” Shakespeare agreed.

“Yet,” Fottingham said, “the murderer appears to have escaped without punishment.”

“God witnessed the deed,” Shakespeare said.

Fottingham thought about that.

“What have you heard about town?” Shakespeare asked.

Before the alderman could answer, a servant entered the room and lay on the table a tray holding two stuffed chickens. The birds were ample and would make a satisfactory dinner, but Shakespeare compared the plate to the copious platters of meat the alderman had served him last spring. Wintertimes were hard up here, food supplies scarce. Shakespeare knew the alderman was sharing his dinner with him and appreciated the act of kindness. He thanked him for such mouth-watering fare. Fottingham smiled, tore off the left leg of a bird and took a bite.

“Be not shy, Willy.” His mouth was stuffed with meat. “Take.”

Shakespeare amputated the chicken’s other leg. Before he ate, he asked, “What winds of gossip do the townspeople blow?”

“Chambers had many foes,” said Fottingham, still chewing.

“Aye? Who?”

“Myself, for instance,” said the alderman. “I owed him not a small sum.”

Shakespeare didn’t react.

Fottingham said, “Aye, you’re a fine player, Willy. Not a hair in your brow did you raise, but I know you must consider me a suspicious man in this whole affair. I knew you were in town. I knew you intended to visit Chambers. Perhaps while you slept soundly in my house I stealthily tiptoed down to the Fishhead and did Chambers and the stew in, rendering my debt to that slimy eel null and void.”