The Quality of Mercy (35 page)

“If I should faint, they’d lower me until the doctor brought me back to earth. His name was Dr. Sanchez and I remember him well. A fair-complexioned man with cold, cold eyes and a wet, fleshy mouth. He never smiled, never winced. Only did his job, Rebecca. His work was to revive the wretches so the Holy See could continue its torture. Often the men would wait a day or two before continuing their evil procedures. That way our arms would swell and the
strappado
would be all the more painful. Then they’d start over again.”

The old woman rubbed her shoulder, swaying as she talked; her voice had become high and strained.

“They got what they wanted — my confession that I was a secret Jewess — but it wasn’t enough, Becca. They wanted me to implicate others as well — my cousins, my friends. I refused — unlike my witch sister.”

The old woman began crying. Rebecca hugged her, her own face wet from tears. She was so proud of her grandam’s defiance, but the recollection was too much for the old woman. Grandmama had turned a ghostly gray.

Rebecca said, “I pray you to stop.”

But the old woman refused.

“Your father did you much harm when he insisted we protect you. Aye, after losing your two sisters, he could bear not the thought of his precious little girl’s tears and sadness. But it was an error. You’re not a rose, child, and you’ll not drop your petals at the horrors I tell you.”

“But this talk makes
you
weak,” Rebecca exclaimed. “Oh, Grandmama, I’m worried about
your
health.”

“I’m not as weak as you think,” the old woman said. “I want to continue.”

Rebecca nodded, feeling utterly helpless to stop her grandmother’s pain. The old woman resumed her narrative. Her voice had turned low-pitched and flat.

“When the
strappado
could not bring out from me the evidence against my friends, the Holy Office tried the
aselli
. I was laid naked upon a trestle table that had running across it sharp-edged rungs…. Not rapier-sharp blades, but the metal was… sharp. They cut slowly, first into the shoulders, then the arse, then the thighs and calves, finally the back almost to the spine. I still bear the scars, girl…. My head… It was bound in place by an iron bar. My ankles and wrists were clamped to the table with metal cuffs and tightened until my fingers and toes first tingled, then went numb.”

Rebecca covered her face and trembled. The hag lay her bony hand atop her granddaughter’s shoulder.

“They forced open my mouth — one of the men was named Marcos, I still remember that. He had a very curly beard and never stopped smiling. I see him now when I close my eyes.” The old woman shivered. “A group of them… they stuffed a rag down my throat. I gagged, coughed, felt my head go black, but the doctor adjusted the rag until it was in my windpipe yet I could still breathe — though with much labor. Marcos picked up a
jug
full of water and poured water slowly into the rag until it became soggy, saturated. It expanded with water and I could feel myself drowning. Of course, I blacked out, then I was revived — by the doctor, it must have been.”

She turned to Rebecca.

“They used four jugs of water on me, Becca. With each jug they poured, they simultaneously tightened the bands that held my wrists and ankles. My body felt like a cow’s udder filled to utmost capacity — remember how you and Thomas and Miguel used to play with udders, fill them with air or water, then prick them with a pin until they burst?”

Rebecca nodded.

“My body was that cow’s udder. I thought they would cut me with a knife and my innards would explode.”

“Merciful God!”

“They chose not to do that, of course. Twould have killed me.” The hag broke into a spasm of coughs.

“I beg you to stop now,” Rebecca pleaded. She patted the old woman’s back.

“Aye,” the hag said, clearing her throat. “I feel very weakened.”

“I’ll help you back to your room, Grandmama.”

But the old woman refused to get up. She grabbed Rebecca’s shoulder with incredible strength. “Eight hundred years our people lived in Iberia, Becca! Eight hundred years! The great Maimonides was born in Cordoba! And now our ways, our houses of prayer, are gone! Destroyed! And those who try to secretly practice our old ways are ferreted out and burnt.
Our
mission is one of the few hopes they have left. We provide them a route of escape, with papers and a country willing to accept them. And even once they settle elsewhere, they, as secret or open Jews, are never safe.

“Oh Becca, you are so naive! To think
we
are safe in England, that you can speak freely to anyone! Iberia has the Inquisition, tis true. But England has its Star Chamber. The Queen’s henchmen have nothing to learn from the Spanish about torture.”

Rebecca nodded solemnly.

“We reside here in England and live as secret Jews only to help those in Iberia escape from the jaws of the Holy See,” the hag continued. “The men in our family work continuously, put their lives in great peril, sneaking on ships, working countless hours to accumulate gold that is given to the monarchs to keep them fat and satisfied — and quiet. You must do your part and cause your father no more pain.”

“As God is my witness, I’ll be a dutiful daughter.”

“It’s amusing to dress as a man, to come and go at liberty. Go with Miguel if you want to dress as a man. Enjoy the plays, the bear and bull fights. Take pleasure in hawking and hunting. Drink at the fashionable alehouses. But do them with your family — with Miguel. He’ll cosset you. His heart is molded from solid gold.”

“It is,” Rebecca said.

“And this Shakespeare. I believe him to be an honest man, very much taken with you — aye, he’s foolish enough to get himself killed for your honor. But you belong to another and so does he. More important, he’s an
outsider
. You must swear off of him.”

Rebecca was silent, tears falling down her cheeks.

“I… can’t.”

The hag raised her eyebrows. “You’ve convinced yourself that you love him.”

“I
do
love him.”

“What you feel, girl, is what my sister felt for her lover — lust, excitement, passion at what is forbidden.”

“It is love!”

“My sister loved her man as well. Only a matter of time before Shakespeare betrays us.”

“I’ll tell him
nothing
about our ways.”

“Bah!”

“We speak love to each other, not the mission.”

“No doubt,” the old woman said disgustedly. “I’m sure you two have passed your nights in blissful harmony, swearing worthless vows beneath the inconstant moon.”

Tears welled up in Rebecca’s eyes. “You mock me.”

The hag softened her expression. “I don’t mock you, girl. But you must stop thinking about your heart and think about what I’ve told you. Otherwise you’ll end up like my sister and cause harm to your family.”

“Never would I do what your sister had done!” Rebecca said.

“Then prove to me your iron will and bid Shakespeare goodbye.”

“Ask of me anything save what you ask now.”

“Tis no test of strength to fight a dove, Becca. Your feelings for Shakespeare are strong. Because they are so powerful, I’m now able to examine the fortitude of your convictions.”

“And if I refuse to stop seeing Shakespeare?”

“Then you refuse.”

“Would you tell Father if I continued to dally with Shakespeare?”

“Never.” The old woman stood up, feeling unburdened. She’d told Becca everything. Now it was up to her granddaughter. “You’re no longer a child, girl. But know this. You have choices to make, Becca. Important choices that have
consequences
. Then — as with my sister — I’ll know where
your
loyalties lay.”

The hag patted the young girl’s hand, then left.

The proper art of knavery was best conducted in packs, Shakespeare discovered. So many good cons could be done with an accomplice, and Rebecca, being clever and fleet-footed, would have made the perfect one had she been a man. But she was a woman — aye, most definitely a woman — a black-hearted fiendish creature more unpredictable than the specter who stalked him.

Shakespeare sat at his desk and cringed as he thought of her.

She had bid him adieu without apologies. Her voice had been steady, her words carefully and painfully well chosen. The night they were caught was regrettable, she said. Most regrettable. But now she had no choice but to obey her father’s orders and never see him again.

Shakespeare understood her need to be a dutiful daughter. But what he didn’t understand, what he couldn’t
forgive,
was her aloof attitude toward him as she said her farewell. No tearful kisses, no final words of love. Only a simple good-bye. How Rebecca had changed from the girl he’d brought home the night of the attack, her stomach and head still sick from drink, her nerves loosened and raw with fright.

That fateful evening was followed by three weeks of bliss. Then they were caught. Gods, what a monster her father had been. But then again, hadn’t Shakespeare — the interloper — also allowed anger to helm his senses? Choleric words had been blown forth by wind-driven tongues, and for a while tragedy had seemed inevitable — a most spleenful night.

Yet even in the wake of anger and distrust, Rebecca still managed to sneak into town and see him. She swore her love for him.

Then that sudden, icy good-bye.

The Devil with her.

Shakespeare sighed and pushed the memories out of his brain. He dipped his quill in his inkpot and planned his future.

Perhaps Rebecca’s sudden change of heart was a sign from Providence. During the last month he had made no effort to find Harry’s murderer. Though he had spent his waking hours flying on love’s wings, his hours asleep were tortured images of a soul exiled to eternal unrest. While his love for Becca blossomed, his conscience wept with despair.

Harry. Always on his mind.

Help me,
Whitman’s ghost had pleaded in Shakespeare’s dreams. The images. A wispy specter with no face standing before the crucifix, a candle in its diaphanous hand. Blood from its eyes. The stigmata.

Help me, Willy
.

Ghastly images.

Perhaps it was all for the best. With time a plentiful crop, Shakespeare renewed his efforts to find his mentor’s slayer. Now was the moment to blot Rebecca from his mind.

As if it were possible.

Concentrate on that plaintive voice.

Help me
.

Shakespeare tapped his quill against his desktop and thought how he could get to Mackering.

Whatever thievery he dared would have to be executed alone. Petty cheating would merit him no reputation among the rogues and might well earn him a month in the stocks at Tyburn. If he wanted to attract Mackering’s attention, he’d have to be known as a cheat of much wit. The easiest way to procure such a dubious title was to cozen in grand fashion — con the
thief
instead of the coney. Take from the cheats who worked for Mackering, thereby filching from the uprightman himself.

Shakespeare stood and peered out his window, hoping to snag a glimpse of the man skulking about the streets as a shadow — the only real proof of his existence a swatch of black cloth torn from his cape.

A month had passed and the demon had yet to return. An elusive shadow, but he would be found.

That gravelly voice. Fading to Harry’s voice.

Help me
.

Shakespeare had heard the cry many times during Harry’s life. Mostly when Whitman was drunk. But not always. Once the plea belched forth from Harry’s throat as the dust of melancholia settled upon his distressed soul.

How Harry had cried, cried for his father.

I was his disappointment,
he moaned.
I failed to reach my destiny
.

Harry had never mentioned his father before, and Shakespeare had been confused by the outburst. He asked if reconciliation were possible.

Never,
Harry cried out. Then in a calm voice he announced,
My father is dead
. Suddenly, Harry clutched Shakespeare’s hands and pleaded,

Oh Willy, help me!

Shakespeare had to rock him to sleep.

Sleep was what Shakespeare needed now. But love had already lost him too much time. No hours left for rest. He slipped his cloak across his shoulders and closed the door behind him.

It was well known that Mackering had diverse cheats in his employ — cutpurses, hookers, unlicensed beggars, highwaymen, and a host of bawds — and a decent amount of money they could collect. Enough to supply their uprightman with pots of good port, a feather mattress, and money to waste at dicing. But Mackering had a reputation for extravagance — the finest clothes, imported weapons, and purebred steeds. That amount of coins only came from sacking the houses of the rich, robbing the gold smith at knifepoint, or dealing in horse tricks. Shakespeare opted for horse tricks. A properly doctored animal could bring in many pounds if the disease or handicap was masked especially well. Many an unsuspecting gentleman had fallen prey to the jiggler’s game.

It was off to Smithfield Market. Shakespeare walked a few blocks west, then turned south onto Bishopsgate, deciding to travel by way of the Cheape.

Shakespeare had learned about horses while tending them for the gentlemen playgoers during his early days in London. He had seen thousands of animals in his day, could tell at a glance which horses were swift by nature, which ones foundered and halted out of stubbornness. More than once it had been Shakespeare, not the groomers, who’d first recognized the telltale signs of glanders or other equine disease. Equally as important, Shakespeare learned how defects were hidden by unscrupulous horse traders who had tried to trap him into a partnership of crime. The rogues had showed him how they turned jades into jewels, nags into the horses of nobility. Often these cheats played upon the men as they exited the theater, offering to find them steeds at a laughingly low cost.

Shakespeare had become so clever at detecting imperfections that the Fates and crossed stars might have made him a jiggler instead of a player. But God and Harry had kept him an honest man.