The Quality of Mercy (83 page)

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.

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, baring 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.

Where
was
she?

Where were any of them? Her brother? Her cousins and uncle?

His eyes scanned the crowd once again, then fixed upon a familiar face — black and shiny. Lopez’s blackamoor servant Martino, standing near the gallows, holding a burlap bag. Was he the only one?

The crowd roared. Shakespeare knew that the condemned man’s cart was coming through the gates of Tyburn. The black-hooded executioner suddenly appeared to the right of the gallows, then climbed six steps up to the raw oak platform. He waited, ax in hand.

Everyone waiting.

Where were Rebecca’s kinsmen? Where was
she
?

The crowd parted, making way for the cart. The mob grew riotous. More of the Queen’s men were sent in to quiet the unruly masses.

The cart stopped: a swarm of bodies descended upon it, only to be repelled by sentries’ pikes and halberds. Protecting the hapless doctor from being torn limb by limb… before the appointed moment.

Shakespeare felt sick. Evil air — murderous vapors.

Roderigo stood, bloodied and stooped. Flanked by guards, he was pushed up the platform steps. To his right were the gallows, a hemp rope ending in a noose swinging from the rafters. To his left stood the executioner. Not a single inch of Tyburn’s field was visible, so packed it was with human flesh.

“Quiet!” the executioner ordered the audience. “The man must be allowed to speak and be heard!”

But the noise would not abate. The crowd inched toward the platform, ready to pounce upon the battered doctor. The sentries closed their ranks around him.

“Quiet!” shouted the executioner once again.

The guards lifted their arms, made menacing gestures to the crowd until the noise reduced to a low-pitched hum.

“Speak,” the executioner ordered.

Roderigo looked around. He whispered the
Shma
to himself.

“Louder!” commanded the executioner.

Roderigo prayed silently to God, prayed that Rebecca had known what he tried to tell her that day. He suddenly spotted Martino’s black face and smiled inwardly.

Rebecca had known! She had to have known!

It gave him strength.

“I am innocent,” Roderigo whispered.

“Louder!” ordered the axman.

“I am innocent!”

The crowd jeered. Garbage was hurled at the platform.

“The man has a right to his last words!” shouted the executioner. “Let him speak!”

Roderigo felt his throat constrict. He knew what
he
had to do. Causing confusion was his only hope. Confusion had been Teresa’s salvation.

Create a riot! Say the outrageous!

“I loved my mistress!” Roderigo shouted.

An immediate chorus of hisses and boos drowned him out.

“Silence I say!” screamed the executioner. “The man is entitled to speak his last words!”

Again the crowd quieted.

“I loved my mistress!” Roderigo screamed. “I loved her more than… than Jesus Christ!”

A burst of derisive laughter obliterated Roderigo’s last words. The angry mob advanced toward the platform, and the executioner knew he could no longer retain order. He quickly slipped Roderigo’s head through the noose and hoisted the doctor upward. Roderigo felt the rope tighten around his neck, felt the breath being squeezed out of his body.

Adonai
…

Shakespeare saw the executioner cut Roderigo down. The doctor’s body was limp; any facial skin not covered by white beard was purple and puffy. Yet it was obvious that the man was still breathing. His chest was still moving.

Shakespeare turned his head, unable to watch the final destruction of the traitor. Yet some invisible force willed his eyes back to the gallows. He had to observe the barbaric rite to its conclusion.

The audience was wild, crazed with a desire to see blood.

So crowded was the platform that the executioner had disappeared from sight. Waves of people pushed forward as guards shoved them off, Roderigo lost in the multitudes. Finally Shakespeare saw the executioner reappear amidst the pandemonium, his ax held high. The blade swung down with a mighty blow.

A bloodied arm was raised in the air.

Shakespeare felt hot, bitter bile rise in his throat.

Another bloodied arm was hoisted upward, shreds of scarlet flesh dangling from the shoulder socket, the fingers clenched in a fist.

Done to the man whilst he lived
.

Shakespeare held back a dry heave.

The leg — hairy, dyed crimson.

The crowd went berserk.

Shakespeare vomited.

The last leg.

God have mercy!

Three guards carried the severed limbs and tied them upon the gates — a warning to any man contemplating treasonous activity.

Shakespeare saw another guard drop the head and torso into a burlap bag, then looked away from the defilement. His eyes passed over the spot where Martino had been standing. The blackamoor was gone.

The executioner was walking away, the ax dripping with red ooze slung over his shoulder.

The black-hooded executioner… His walk was odd.

He limped.

He
limped
.

A familiar limp.

Another guard stood watch over the bag containing Lopez’s remains. He held a halberd in his left hand; his right hand dangled lifelessly by his side. Still another sentry was positioned to his left, black-bearded but pale.

Where was
she
?

Shakespeare looked out across the field. On the other side he saw a draper and boy apprentice pushing a cart piled high with burlap away from the bestial packs. The apprentice was costumed for the part — worn brown jerkin, yellow hose, scuffed black boots, and brown cap.