The Quality of Mercy (19 page)

“I can’t breathe,” Rebecca gasped.

“Hush. You’ll grow used to it.”

“It’s too tight.”

Her grandmother responded by pulling the twine tighter.

“I’m being crushed,” Rebecca pleaded.

The old woman ignored her. “So you know nothing of Jezebel?”

“I know something of her,” Rebecca said. “I greatly like hearing your versions of the stories.”

“Not my versions!” the hag said, knocking Rebecca’s head.

“Ow.”

“These are stories as written by our prophets,” the old woman lectured. “Written for us with God’s guiding hand! Now,
what
do you know of Jezebel?”

“She was enticing… and wicked.”

“Aye, very wicked. She was the wife of the King of Israel — King Ahab. She turned him wicked as well.”

“Wasn’t Jezebel a whore?”

“Much worse, Becca. Jezebel was a murderess who used her womanly powers for evil — to lead the righteous to do evil. As she did with King Ahab.”

“Yet she was successful in her design, Grandmama,” said Rebecca.

“Why do you say that!”

“Because her scheming gave her the title of Queen.”

“And that is your definition of success?”

“Not a bad definition, I should think.”

“Ah Becca, it pleases you to rile me.” Grandmama tugged on the twine. Hard. “Aye, most of the time Jezebel was successful. But one man did not succumb to her designs. The prophet Elijah. He escaped her powers because he was strong in the mind and believed in God.”

“Our God,” Rebecca clarified.

“When I speak of God, I only speak of one God,” the old woman whispered. “The God of Moses — Adonai.
Lo yeheya le’ha elohim a’herim al panai
. ‘There shall be no other God before me.’ Jesu was an invention of a demented, embittered bastard named Saul. Because of Elijah’s faith in Adonai, his mind proved impenetrable to evil.”

“Elijah was a very dour prophet.”

“All the prophets were dour. They were forecasting doom. It would have been blasphemous to act otherwise. But Elijah did have one distinction. Do you remember what that was?”

“No.”

“God took Elijah whilst he was alive.”

“Ah, the chariot of fire across the sky,” Rebecca said. “What a spectacle that would have been. Twould have bested any fireworks ever performed for the Queen.”

The hag knocked Rebecca’s head again.

Rebecca laughed. “What finally happened to Jezebel?”

“You remember not?”

“No.”

“She was pushed out of a window and was devoured by mad dogs.”

“God’s sointes, what a horrible death!”

“She was evil.”

“Even so, Grandmama.”

“All that remained were the soles of her feet and the palms of her hands.”

Rebecca laughed and her grandmother slapped her on the back. “It’s the truth, you heretic! Read your bible.”

“I’ve lost my new English copy, and the Latin version has half the pages missing.”

“I must get you a bible scripted in the old language,” Grandmama said. “I have one, but the pages are as yellow as saffron and turn to dust at a finger’s touch.” The hag paused. “Perhaps Uncle Solomon can find one in his country. How much of the Hebrew you read do you understand?”

“About half.”

“If I come upon an old ‘Naviim,’ I’ll translate the entire story for you.”

“I would enjoy that,” Rebecca said. “Grandmama, why
would
mad dogs leave such strange spoils behind?”

“It wasn’t the dogs, silly girl.
God
left such spoils behind.” She turned Rebecca around to face her. “You’re as flat as a boy now.”

Rebecca kissed her cheeks. “Why did God leave such spoils?”

“In our old religion there is a custom of dancing in front of a bride, to gladden her heart and make her wedding day most joyous. It’s a righteous thing, to dance before a bride.” The old woman hobbled back over to her bed and sat down on the straw-covered mattress. “The sight of a maiden in her wedding dress held spellbound the wicked Jezebel, and she danced with love of Adonai in her heart for the bride. She clapped with her hands and stamped with her feet. So God spared them as a reminder for the one good deed she had done.”

The old woman paused, then said, “I have endured many terrible things in my life, Becca, but faith has kept me alive. And clear drinking water can sometimes come from the rottenest of wells. Remember that. It could save your life.”

Rebecca looked at her, puzzled.

“Never mind,” Grandmama said. “An old woman is loose in her thoughts, as you are loose in your boots.”

She began cramming small bits of cloth around Rebecca’s feet, tickling them whenever she could. How she loved the sound of her granddaughter’s laughter, the echo of her own girlish joy. When the boots were sufficiently tight, Rebecca slipped on the doublet. The old woman tied up the sleeves, and meticulously pinned the young girl’s hair under the cap.

“Step away from me,” Grandmama commanded Rebecca. She admired the form. “The fairest man I’ve ever seen.”

Rebecca smiled.

“And where is your belt, sword, and dagger, young man?”

“I’ve ‘borrowed’ some of Thomas’s. He shan’t miss them for a few hours. They’re hidden in one of the hedges outside.”

The old woman reached out for Rebecca’s hands and kissed them. “Be careful among those ruffians.”

“I will.”

“Where will you go today, Becca?”

“Since the theaters remain open, I think I’ll go to Southwark.” Rebecca slipped on her gloves. “To that new theater, the Unicorn.”

De Andrada saw the young man leave through the window and smiled wickedly. So, the beautiful Rebecca had entertained a lover while her parents were away. If she were warmed from one man, how fiery she would be after two.

He grew hard between his legs as he opened the door to his closet. He tiptoed down the stairs, eager with excitement. He could feel himself upon her, smooth skin squirming under his body. She would protest — aye, maybe even pinch and bite. He liked it that way. Then he’d tell her he’d seen her young man — a skinny runt in yellow and black round hose, a fancy slashed doublet, and the cap with the feather — and the fighting would stop.

He snickered. What would she say when he threatened to tell her father? Would she plead with him, beg him to silence? Aye, he would be silent, but he had to get something in return. Having no choice, she’d have to capitulate.

He’d be rough with her, he decided, slap her around, bite the inside of her white thighs — bruise her well, the snobbish wench. Then as she wept, he’d thrust himself into her insides, already well wetted from her previous encounter. Aye, he’d replace the young man’s spare seed with a raging river of his own.

He grinned at the thought. Ruy Lopez had betrayed him, had made Ferreira de Gama the new Iberian contact for the mission, taking de Gama instead of him. Though the doctor had tried to downplay the significance of de Gama’s visit, he — Manuel de Andrada — had overheard the men speaking about de Gama. He had powerful ears, thanks be to Providence. A good piece of information to be used against Lopez when the time was right!

What flimsy excuses the witch doctor had offered when he and the snake, de Gama, were about to leave this morning.

Esteban is simply accompanying me to St. Bartholomew’s, Manuel. Nothing more. He wants to bring a bit of cheer to those hospitalized
.

When de Andrada asked if he, too, could go with them, Lopez flatly refused. And the witch doctor had the gall to tell him it was for his own protection.

You’ve been quite weak the past few days with fever and water loss, Manuel. Better to convalesce away from the breath of the ill
.

Aye, he’d been ill, but that wasn’t the reason he’d been deserted. Bartholomew’s had been a ruse. According to the stable boy, the horses hadn’t been pointed in the direction of the hospital.

Scheming behind his back again! Rebecca was
owed
to him as payment for his unappreciated service.

He placed his hand under his hose and stroked his throbbing erection. Shaking with lust, he touched the doorknob of Rebecca’s bedchamber, then turned it quickly and stormed his way inside.

His first reaction was one of confusion; the sheets were folded, properly made up. He searched the room, but there was no sight of her, no musky smells from a recent dalliance.

He closed the door and searched other rooms, only to find nothing suspect.

Where had they met?

Maybe the hag knew.

He walked down the stairs and opened the door to the old woman’s chambers. She looked up quizzically.

“Where is she?” demanded de Andrada.

The old woman smiled benignly. De Andrada went over to the poster bed and shook her violently.

“Where is Rebecca?” he screamed at her.

“Rebecca?” she said.

“Your granddaughter, you stupid sow!”

“Oh… aye, my granddaughter is named Rebecca.”

“Where is she?”
de Andrada bellowed.

“She went with her mother… to visit my daughter, Maria. I have two daughters. One married Jorge Añoz, the other married—”

“Stow it, you old fart!” De Andrada paced. “She didn’t leave with her mother, hag. Where is she?”

“Ah, I remember now,” the hag muttered. “I do, I do, I do. She went riding with my grandson, Dunstan. Or was it Thomas? Or was it Ben?”

“You piece of brown turd.” De Andrada covered her face with the sheet. The little bitch had slipped through his fingers. “Who was that man?”

“Which man?” asked the old woman in a muffled voice.

De Andrada uncovered her face and said calmly, “The one with the feather in his brown cap. He just left the house not more than a quarter hour ago.”

“Which man?”

“Oh, never mind. You’re a blot on the Isle. I’d be doing everyone a service if I murdered you on the spot.”

The old woman cracked her thin lips into a smile.

“Aye, I would do it,” de Andrada said. “But why should I do any favors for a devil of a doctor?”

He turned around and stomped out of her bower, slamming the door behind him.

Shakespeare saw the black shadow pass and felt a sudden chill. His mind was playing tricks again. Had not the sun been darting in and out of the clouds all afternoon? He was seeing ethereal things, hearing voices that were nothing more than the whistle of the wind. Harry’s ghost, or whoever it was, had shaken him more than he was willing to admit.

If the midnight visitor had been Harry’s ghost, then there lay a very serious state of affairs. A spirit would haunt only if the soul was unclean. And if it hadn’t been a specter, then some man had broken into his room, infused his drink with a potion, and clubbed him on the head. Either alternative remained unattractive.

Standing behind the backdrop of the stage platform, Shakespeare readjusted his chef’s hat and waited for Burbage to finish up his “Oath of Loyalty” speech. The play they were performing was one of the worst in their repertoire, written by a rakish clod named Dubbin who was inflicted with falling sickness. He claimed his fits were messages from angels. The jack was a false prophet to be sure, but no one dared dispute him. Burbage loved the book because it had many long, solo passages. Shakespeare considered the writing dull and ponderous. The humor was so dry that the groundlings didn’t understand it, and the gentlemen who did catch the puns seemed not to like them. Dubbin might have been touched by the divine, but his writings were anything but inspirational.

What the fellowship wouldn’t do to please Master Burbage.

Burbage, with his broad, sweeping gestures, exaggerated facial expressions, and deep moaning voices — all of his mannerisms stolen from Harry Whitman. But even Shakespeare had to admit that Burbage had learned his lessons well. He’d become the consummate actor — the only legitimate heir to Harry’s throne.

Robin Hart came up to Shakespeare and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Old Rich is at it again.” The ’tire man frowned. “You should see him on stage, stomping over the hem of the robe. He’s going to rip the fabric! I just know it!”

Shakespeare smiled.

“Someone came around asking for you,” Hart said. “While you were taking dinner.”

“Who?”

“He didn’t say his name.”

Shakespeare felt a sudden prickling on the back of his neck.

“What did this nameless someone want?”

“He sends greetings to you from a mutual friend — a gentleman.”

“What was the gentleman’s name?”

“I don’t remember his name, either, save that he called him Master so-and-so. Hence, he had to be a gentleman.”

“You’re most helpful, Robin,” said Shakespeare.

“I’m simply a worn-out ’tire man, not a player, and I make no pretense of having an exceptionally sound memory, as the rest of you do.”

Shakespeare turned to him and patted his shoulder. “Did the nameless messenger
mention
the mutual gentleman’s name?”

“Aye, he did. It simply slipped my mind.” Hart thought a moment. “The name sounded like a fish,” he said.

“Master Herring?” Shakespeare asked.

“No, that wasn’t it.”

“Master Halibut?”

“Nay.”

“Master Gudgeon? Master Roach?”

“No, no. It wasn’t that at all.”

Shakespeare shrugged. His outward appearance was calm, but inside he was very taut.

“Mackerel,” Hart announced with a note of pride in his voice. “His name sounded like Mackerel.” He looked at Shakespeare and gasped, “Good God, Willy, you’re white.”

“Mackering,” Shakespeare whispered to Hart. “Was the gentleman’s name Master Mackering?”

“The very one,” Hart said. “What is it?” Hart gasped. “Heavens, do you think he meant the ruffian George Mackering?”

Shakespeare ignored the question and asked, “What did this ‘messenger’ look like?”

The color had suddenly drained from Hart’s face. “Look like?”

“Aye.”

“I… I know not how to describe him. I know it seems preposterous, but it was as though he had no face.”

“Did he have a beard?”

“I recall a beard. At least, I think I would have noticed had he been smooth-faced.”

“Tall? Short? Portly? Reedy?”