The Quality of Mercy (18 page)

William Dale grabbed Shakespeare as soon as he saw him enter, pulling him away from Cuthbert.

“Where were you?” he asked. “Don’t you realize the time?”

Shakespeare debated giving him an explanation but thought better of it. He shrugged helplessly.

“We’ve a problem,” said the keeper of the books. “The Master of the Revels has taken umbrage to your Richard.”

“Which Richard?”

“The Third.”

“What’s wrong with the book?” Shakespeare asked.

“Willy,” shouted the ’tire man from afar. He was upstairs in the second gallery, holding a bundle of clothing. “Come get fitted.”

“In a minute, Robin,” Shakespeare shouted back. He returned his attention to Dale. “What’s wrong with the play?”

“Master Tilney objects to your portrayal of Richard. He claims you’ve made the Duke of Gloucester too human.”

Shakespeare sighed. “Too human?”

“The original book — which you’ve rewritten — showed Gloucester to be an evil, scheming—”

“I’ve continued to write him with much evil—”

“He has too much doubt, Will,” Dale said. “Aye, he does evil, but he
anguishes
about it.”

“Without the anguish,” Shakespeare said, “he becomes a flat figure of a man with no thoughts other than those of the Devil. If I’d wanted to write a passion play, where good is named good, evil is named evil, chastity is a boy wearing white and gluttony a fat man with a pomaded beard, I would have done so without using the pretense of Richard.”

“Will,” Dale explained patiently, “the Duke of Gloucester was usurper of the throne. The Queen will not be pleased if such a man is played for sympathy. The Tudors are claimants from the House of Lancaster.”

“Harry the Eighth was more York than Lancaster,” Shakespeare countered.

“Owen Tudor came from the House of Lancaster.”

“Not a drop of true Lancaster blood had ever flowed in the Welshman’s veins—”

“Let us not quibble with bloodline, Will, and address the problem in our hands,” said Dale. “Master Tilney feels the play is subversive, and we dare not displease Her Grace.” He gently pushed the book against Shakespeare’s chest. “Evil up old Richard. And quickly. We’d like to perform the book by the summer.”

“Shakespeare!”

Shakespeare turned around. That rich, booming baritone could only belong to one person. Richard Burbage was in fine form today — erect posture, as stately as nobility. His nose wasn’t nearly as swollen as it had been the last couple of weeks, and his complexion had returned once again to its rosy hue. His eyes, always dark and secretive, came alive differently with each character he portrayed. This morning they seemed to smolder.

“I see my brother has managed to drag you in before the dinner hour,” he said. His voice was piqued.

Shakespeare smiled. He said, “What do you think of my Richard the Third? You’re the one who’s to play him. Do you think he’s evil enough?”

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you about that very book,” Burbage articulated. “I have concerns about Gloucester’s opening words.”

“What kind of concerns?”

“My entrance speech is much too short.”

“It’s forty lines.”

“Bah,” Burbage scoffed. “Hardly a word is out of my mouth before I’m interrupted by Clarence. I need to
expound
— set forth my plans, my wishes, my desires, my
ruthlessness
. Add at least another twenty lines.”

“Twenty lines?”

“Or even an addition of thirty would not be excessive.”

Back to his desktop tonight, Shakespeare thought. “Do you like the book as written, Burbage?”

“Aside from the opening speech?”

“Aside from the opening speech.”

“Richard’s part is too small.”

“Do you think Richard is played too sympathetically?”

“No,” Burbage said. “He just isn’t given enough opportunity to speak.” He smiled and added, “I like that touch you added about old Gloucester being a crookback. It shall play magnificently on stage. All eyes will be upon me.”

The ’tire man shouted again. He was now up on the third level. “You must get fitted at once.”

“Five more minutes, please, Robin,” Shakespeare screamed back.

“By the way,” Robin yelled. “Your new sword just snapped in two. That’s what you get for ordering cheap!”

Splendid, thought Shakespeare.

“So you don’t think the play is treasonous?” Shakespeare asked Burbage.

“Heavens, I’m in no position to judge such an accusation!” Burbage answered. “I’m a tragedian, not a censor.” He patted Shakespeare on the back. “Another forty lines, even fifty if it’s going well.” Without another word, Burbage walked away. Robin Hart came forward carrying some pins and a costume.

“Since you persist in ignoring my pleas, I’ve come to you.”

“It’s not possible to dismiss Richard Burbage in midsentence,” Shakespeare said.

“Hold still.” The ’tire man placed a cook’s hat atop Shakespeare’s head. The rim was much too large and slipped over his face.

“What is this?” Shakespeare protested, lifting off the hat.

“You are to play the cook this afternoon,” Hart said. “By the way, I’ve found you a sword.”

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

“Tut, Robin. I can walk home and get my own sword.”

“Too late for that. Just be careful with it.”

“I shall.”

“The blade is imported from — dare I say it — Toledo. Such a fine point it has. The slightest poke could cause a nasty wound. But I trust you with it.”

“Many thanks,” Shakespeare said. “I thought Augustine was going to play the cook.”

“Augustine broke his leg. He fell off a horse, the stupid jack!” Hart plopped the hat back on Shakespeare’s head and began to pin the rim. “You’re also to play the guard, the night watchman, the constable—”

“How am I to play the constable if I’m to play the drunkard, when the drunkard and the constable are on stage at the same time? Must I talk to myself?”

“You shall simply shift from one position to another.”

“That’s absurd. I will be laughed off the platform and pelted with slop.”

“Nonsense,” Hart insisted. “You may play the fool as well, if you’d like.”

“I’m already doing that.”

The ’tire man pulled the hat off and pounded Shakespeare on the back. “We have confidence in you, Willy.”

“Where is the book?” Shakespeare asked. “If I am to be an ass in front of hundreds of people, I may as well learn the lines.”

Hart handed him scrolls of the various parts. “The lines are simple enough. If you don’t like what’s there, write your own. Only do be careful of the cues. Keep them consistent with the rest of the book.”

Shakespeare groaned as he read. “Who’s doing the prompting this afternoon?” he asked.

“Willy Dale.”

“Then it seems I should have great need of his services. There are over three hundred lines to commit to memory.”

“I’ve no worry,” Hart said. “You’ve done it before. But a little suggestion, Willy.” He smiled and patted his cheek. “Go gently with the garlics at dinner.”

Rebecca placed the mustache over her lip and pressed it down. Picking up the looking glass, she blew warm air onto its surface and buffed it with the hem of her chemise. It was an old mirror, dull and distorted, and she had to squint to keep her eyes in focus. But once she made out her reflection, she smiled. The mustache and beard she’d chosen were perfect — full with reddish tones. With her face disguised in manly pelt, she realized how much she resembled her brother — their features were the same, only their coloring differed.

She stroked the beard and decided it would be a nuisance to have facial hair, something else to be washed, combed, trimmed, and pomaded. Ah, but what it signified! The hair on her chin and above her lip meant she was no longer artwork — a thing of beauty to be courted, wooed, and won. Nor was she required to remain homebound until a proper escort was found. She wasn’t obliged to act flirtatious or coy. Or keep her hands busy. (The true English gentlewoman was always industrious, her aunt had lectured.) The beard and mustache allowed her the luxury of idleness, the sudden freedom to come and go and
do
as she pleased.

To be a man, she thought wistfully.

Picking up her brother’s hose, Rebecca pulled them over her coltish legs. Although Ben was taller than she, he wasn’t particularly tall for a man, not like their father. And she had the fortune — or
mis
fortune, her brother had informed her — of being well sized for a woman. His hose were too long for her, but the excess material was easily hidden inside his boots.

Her brother had enormous feet. Even the surplus of stocking failed to fill up the empty space. No matter, she thought. Grandmama would stuff them with rags until they fit snugly. Marry, the boots were old. They’d been redyed a sickly brown, the toes were scuffed beyond repair, and the left sole sported a pennysized hole. But a starving man didn’t scoff at scraps. They were the only shoes Ben had left behind, and they would suffice. A pity he’d taken all his good ones to Venice, Rebecca thought. She especially liked his red velvet shoes with the gold buckles. They would have looked splendid with the yellow and black round hose she’d chosen to wear today.

Her chest would look much too womanly under a doublet. She needed help. She gathered up a set of gold sleeves, a slashed gold and red doublet, a pair of gloves, and a brown cap with a peacock feather. Stuffing the clothes under her arms, she opened the door to her brother’s bedchambers and peered down the hallway: a chambermaid, carrying fresh sheets. She disappeared into the left guest closet.

Her mother was not due back from her visit with Aunt Maria until suppertime. Her father was God knew where, discussing God knew what with God knew whom. He’d taken with him the new houseguest, Esteban Ferreira de Gama. De Gama had been most cordial to Rebecca since his arrival a week ago. She thought him quite witty, if not handsome — thickly set, with enormously powerful legs, like those of a draft horse. A warm smile, but not lecherous. Not like Manuel de Andrada.

Only
he
remained inside the house with her, alone with Grandmama and the servants, the door to his cell shut.

What would that
weasel
say if he saw her like this — false beard and dressed as a man. Would he laugh at her, tease her, or threaten to tell her father? She decided most definitely he’d threaten to expose her game — unless, of course, she capitulated to him. How many times he had pawed her or worse, tried to corner her and pry open her legs. She dared not tell the men in her family about it. She’d implied de Andrada’s improprieties to Ben once before, and her impulsive brother had been ready to kill the weasel on the spot. She had to use all her feminine wiles to restrain his rage. The last thing in the world the family needed was an unexplained murder in their house, the law poking its nose into the family’s personal affairs. So she held her peace about de Andrada and kept the door to her bedchamber locked.

Manuel de Andrada had to be a very important man for Father to keep him around. Or at the very least, a man who knew too much. She spat on the floor and cursed his name. How much longer would her father have to support that maggot? Give him clothes, food, and shelter? Several of her kinsmen had spoken of poison and de Andrada in the same sentence. She wished the talk would convert to action.

Tiptoeing out of her brother’s bower — all the sleeping quarters were on the upper level — she scampered down the hallway, then ran down the spiral staircase, hurrying into the library. She hid behind a walnut bookcase overflowing with her father’s medical tomes and surveyed the room.

No one around.

She rushed out of the library to the door of her grandma’s closet. Roderigo had built the chamber to suit the old woman’s needs. Since the hag was severely crippled, her cell was on the first floor — no steps to maneuver — and right off the kitchen. It made serving her meals easier.

Rebecca threw open the door and the toothless woman looked up from her poster bed and smiled. She was reading, her emaciated body propped up with a half-dozen pillows.

“I need some help,” Rebecca said, closing the door.

“You disguise yourself again?” the hag croaked out. “You’re the Devil!”

“Hurry, Grandmama. I must leave before that slimy worm de Andrada sees me.”

The old woman put down the book, slowly swung her legs off the mattress, and rested her bandaged feet on the floor. Rebecca stood to help her, but her grandmother motioned her down with the palm of her hand.

Her feeble movements were painful for Rebecca to watch — withered, spotted hands pushing up a frail body hanging from a bent spine, bony fingers reaching for her walking sticks. When the hag was finally upright — or as upright as she could be — she extended the sticks out and dragged her legs toward them. Her hands trembled horribly, but Rebecca knew there was yet so much the old woman could do with them. The young girl forced herself to act impatient and short-tempered with the hag. Anything less would seem as if she pitied her grandmama, and as sure as poison, pity would kill her.

“Hurry up, you old sot,” she chided. “Father should have put you away years ago.”

“Hush your foul mouth, Devil.”

“Have I all day to watch a cripple walk?”

“Whore.”

Rebecca smiled.

“Daughter of Jezebel,” the hag scolded.

“Tell me about Jezebel,” said Rebecca.

“Your learning of the scriptures is an abomination.” The old woman reached her and kissed her bearded cheek. Rebecca threw her arms around the skeletal frame.

“You’ll break me in two,” Grandmama screamed.

“I hope so.”

The old woman pushed her away, bent down on the floor and opened the lid to a box. She pulled out swatches of rags, a twine of string, and a knife. Rebecca stripped naked from the waist up.

“You’ve such lovely, large mounds, granddaughter,” the old woman said, wrapping the girl’s breasts in rags. “You’ll flatten them out if you keep this up.”

“Would I could lop them off.”

“Oh hush up.” After Grandmama encircled Rebecca’s chest with rags, she pulled the ends tightly from behind and secured them with string.