The Quality of Mercy (38 page)

Cuthbert took three successive gulps of ale. “Aye, your ragged costume, your face embellished with sores, the pathetic limp in your walk… And what shall you say when the Queen’s men arrest you for vagrancy and put your head in the stocks? I was only playacting?”

“Such lack of trust I’d expect from others, Cuthbert… but you? If I am to play the beggar, would not I be equipped with a beggar’s license?”

“Where’d you get the license?”

Shakespeare smiled cryptically.

“You forged it, aye?” Cuthbert said.

“A wizard never reveals the secrets of his arts.”

“Willy, what in God’s name are you doing?”

Shakespeare kicked off his toeless shoes. “First tell me what magical bell summoned you to my humble abode.”

Cuthbert said, “I’ve fair news, my cousin.”

“The Master of the Revels has reopened the theaters?”

“No… not at all. How could he with London so riddled with death?”

“Good news you say?” Shakespeare sat down opposite Cuthbert. “You must have arranged to take the fellowship on the road this summer.”

“Fresh air, Willy. Open highways, the summer’s greenery in full blossom. And mayhap even a stop at Warwick to see the wife and the bairns.” Cuthbert smiled and poked Shakespeare in the ribs with his elbow. “Remove ourselves from the rancid stench of the city.”

Shakespeare ran his finger through the coins. “My apologies, but fate dictates that I not join you.”

Cuthbert frowned. “And why is that?”

“I fall behind on my promised poem to Lord Southampton,” Shakespeare said. “I must poise myself, quill in hand, and finish the work for my benefactor. Since Black Death has been London’s constant companion for the last year, methinks Southampton will be buying my bread come the winter. I dare not peeve the young lord with tardiness.”

“Then why do you playact a beggar instead of write?” Cuthbert challenged.

Shakespeare thought a moment. “Atmosphere,” he said. “A good writer must sate himself with atmosphere.”

“I must be missing something,” Cuthbert answered. “I see no connection between a beggar and Lucrece. She is the subject of your latest poem, is she not? Had you playacted the raped virgin, then I — being the simpleton — might have understood your point.”

“And that is why God has made me the bookwriter and you the housekeeper. You see things much too literally.”

“Are we to continue this mockery, Willy, or are you to tell me the truth?”

Shakespeare spun a groat, watched it sparkle as it twirled until it fell flat on its face. “Had the theaters remained opened this past year, I wouldn’t have accepted Lord Southampton’s endowment. I would have made do as a player. But being greedy, in want of bread and meat, I took his money and owe him the best of my ability.”

“You’ve always acted and written simultaneously… well, not simultaneously, but—”

“A poem is different.”

“Yet last year you wrote
Venus and Adonis
as we toured.”

“
Venus and Adonis
was simplistic compared to Lucrece. The poem I pen now demands more commitment. More concentration.”

“And your decision has nothing to do with Harry’s death?”

“Why should it?”

“I’m concerned for your welfare, Shakespeare. Everyone knows you seek out George Mackering, and he’s as sly and sharp-toothed a wolverine as ever there lived.”

Shakespeare scooped up a handful of coins, let them fall like a silvery cascade onto the table. “He’s my only connection to Harry.”

“What makes you think Mackering was involved? Because some jack innkeeper said it was such. How do you know this innkeeper — What was his name?”

“Chambers.”

“How do you know Chambers was speaking to you in earnest?”

“Tis possible he lied in his throat.”

“And his lie could lead you to unmentionable consequences at Mackering’s hands.”

“I desire only a word with the ruffian. Surely there’s no harm in that.” But Shakespeare’s voice lacked conviction. “The very fact that Mackering has thus avoided my attempts for conversation leads me to believe that he was involved in Harry’s death.”

“So your death will somehow avenge Harry’s?”

Shakespeare pounded his fist on the table. “I’ve no room in my gut for fear or doubt, Cuthbert. I owe Henry Whitman his murderer’s head on the bridge!”

“I, more than anyone, knew what Harry had done for you. After all, twas I who was the recipient of his words on your behalf.” He lowered his voice an octave and orated, “‘Cuthbert! I demand that the number of Shakespeare’s lines be increased twofold. He’s wasted as a groom!… Cuthbert, Shakespeare has to live. He needs more money per book!… Cuthbert, Shakespeare must become a shareholder else you’ll find yourself looking for a replacement this afternoon.’ Gods, the man was as insufferable as Richard.”

“Remember how your brother and Harry went at it?” Shakespeare said wistfully. “How the two of them could blow — like Joshua’s horn, their voices could bring down walls.”

Cuthbert smiled. “Harry was the only person I knew whose voice could drown out Richard’s.”

“Twas close.”

“Very close.”

Shakespeare sighed. “So you see why I have to follow my heart.”

“Harry would not have approved of your quest,” Cuthbert said. “His ghost told you to let the dead rest in peace. Perhaps he was protecting you, warding you off of something dangerous. Listen to him.”

“That was no ghost,” Shakespeare said. “Harry’s ghost would not have needed a blow to my head to stun my inquiries.”

“Marry, then who was it?”

“That I don’t know.”

“It could be anyone,” Cuthbert said.

“Anyone who
knew
my connection with Harry, yes,” Shakespeare said.

“Have you talked to Margaret about this?”

“What for? I’ve found out nothing new. And why worry her? It was at her behest that I started looking into Harry’s death. If anything were to happen to me, she’d drown in a pool of remorse. As if her request is the reason I continue my quest. It is my will, not hers, that keeps me going.”

“But as Harry’s wife, tis possible she could illuminate her husband’s relationship with this Chambers fellow.”

“Margaret and I had already conversed upon the topic of Chambers when I arrived back in town from my first trek up North. She never heard of the innkeeper.”

“So there you have it. Chambers is a prevaricator.”

“All it means to me is that Harry, like most men, kept secrets from his wife.”

“Did you ask Margaret why Harry had upon him so much money?”

“Yes. She knows not the reason for that either.”

“I state that Chambers was lying.”

“Perhaps.”

“I state that Chambers was lying about Mackering as well.”

Shakespeare shrugged. “A possibility. But I’ll know more about that after I’ve spoken with the rogue, which I
mean
to do. More ale, Cuthbert?”

The coins were neatly stacked and categorized, a piece of vellum attached to each pile stating from which trick the coins had been attained and from whom they’d been filched. Shakespeare’s own purse had grown light of late and his eyes couldn’t resist the pull of the glittering columns of silver and gold. Aye, the money was tainted, obtained by connivery, yet stolen metal purchased goods as easily as the coins he’d earned from writing or acting.

Pity the good and just. Let no man state that thievery didn’t pay. What amazed him was how simple the lifting had been. You wanted it, it was yours for the taking. Twas surprising that there remained any honest men when the rewards from knavery so greatly outweighed the risks of being caught.

He’d done it all — cheated Mackering’s cutpurses, stolen coins from his beggars’ baskets, outfoxed his stews who had tried to rob him. He even sampled a few of the fairer ones, including Mackering’s own doxy, Mary Biddle. Shakespeare had smiled when he filched the clothes off of the hooker’s crome and cheated Mackering’s horse thieves. He even robbed merchandise from Mackering’s barn of stolen wares. Shakespeare had found out where Mackering hid his goods from a whore who was less than enamored of her master. And he had performed all his cheating in the light of day!

Yes, the thieving had been easy, even humorous at times, but always he sensed hidden danger. Not from the constables or the watchmen — they didn’t bother him — but from a lurking black shadow waiting for him to lower his guard. His thoughts were not allowed to wander in public — a mixed blessing. He had to push aside images useful for future books and poetry, but at least his mind had been focused away from
her
!

His tired eyes shifted from the coins to the book in front of him. Gods, he’d spent the entire night scribbling away, finishing two pages of verse for Lord Southampton and six hundred lines of prose — two and one-half scenes. The ideas had poured out — a gush of creativity that had been dammed back by daytime vigilance. He could barely decipher his own writing.

All night he’d written, persevering past sunrise, past the breakfast hour. Like most of the men he knew, he never ate in the morning, the early repast being a sign of the weak or the infirm. Now the dinner hour was approaching, but his stomach would have to wait.

Yawning, he rose from his desk and sank onto his pallet. He’d changed the straw yesterday, and the sweet, fresh aroma filled nostrils previously clogged by the smell of tallow. He closed his eyes. Sleep came swiftly but lasted not long enough. His heart was jolted awake by a rude banging at his door.

“Patience,” Shakespeare shouted. He arose groggily. “Who comes?”

The reply was muffled.

Shakespeare grabbed his dagger, stepped to the side, and threw open the door.

A boy walked in, a stylus held tightly in his hand. He was no more than fourteen, dressed in rags, dirty and thin. His eyes were wide with fright, his hands and bare arms caked with mud.

“Sir?” he inquired.

Shakespeare grasped him from behind and held a dagger at his neck.

“Drop the skene, my bene cove. You’ve no need for it here.”

The boy’s knife fell to the floor.

“That’s good,” Shakespeare said. “You’re a messenger, a tumbler in your language.”

The boy nodded.

“For whom?”

“Mackering.”

“Your name?”

“Pigsfeet.”

Shakespeare looked down at the boy’s feet. His exposed toes rested on the soles of his open shoes like sausages on a platter. The fourth and fifth digits had been fused together. Shakespeare kicked the boy’s fallen dagger to the opposite side of the room, shut the door with his foot, then released the boy from his grip.

“Sit on that chair.”

Pigsfeet backed into the seat, unwilling to turn his back on Shakespeare. His saucer eyes crept around the room and landed on the pile of money. Shakespeare pulled up a chair and sat in front of him.

“State your business.”

“Me uprightman be wantin’ you to bing a wast with me.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere in London.”

“London is a large city. You’ll have to be more specific.”

The boy said nothing.

“You have parents?” Shakespeare asked.

“Taken by the plague,” said Pigsfeet. “Me aunt had me for a summer and a half till I ran away with a wench. She and I filched what we could in the day — and niggled greatly in the night.” He smiled with blackened teeth. “Then she dallied with Mackering. Now she’s
his
special doxy and I break into houses for the master — steal for him bread, milk, or bacon. Other things ifin I see them well.”

He pointed to Shakespeare’s door.

“I jiggled many a door, but the lock on yours is harder than rock,” he said with admiration. “Can I see the latch?”

“No.”

The boy sat back and sulked.

“Hungry?” Shakespeare asked. He got up and threw the boy a piece of stale rye bread.

Pigsfeet caught it. Gobbled it up in two bites.

“Master doesn’t feed you too well, does he?” said Shakespeare.

“He’s done good by me,” Pigsfeet answered warily.

“Did he tell you to break into my closet?”

The boy nodded.

“Aye, the money you found here was his to begin with,” said Shakespeare.

“That’s what the master said,” Pigsfeet answered.

“Where are you to take me?”

“Have you any mess for me storming belly?”

“I’ve a plum,” Shakespeare answered.

“Where?”

“Next to my pallet.”

“Can I steal it?”

“You can have it.”

Shakespeare watched as the boy slowly rose. He took two steps in the direction of the pallet, then made a sudden dive for his dagger. Shakespeare was too quick. He grabbed the boy by his waist and flung him to the other side of the room. Pigsfeet crashed against the wall and crumpled.

“You wound me, boy,” said Shakespeare.

Pigsfeet groaned.

“I offer you food and hospitality and you repay my kindness by trying to knife me. Such thanklessness. Tis most ungrateful.”

The boy rolled over on his side, brought his knees to his chest and moaned. Shakespeare walked over, grabbed his collar and pulled him to his feet.

“I’m a player, boy,” Shakespeare said. “Easily, I recognize a bad performance.”

Pigsfeet frowned, straightened up and smirked.

“In sooth, I’m insulted,” Shakespeare said. “You are who your master sends for an assassin? A boy as weak as a woman—”

“I can knock you to the stars.”

Shakespeare laughed and waved him away. “Be gone, boy. Out! Away! Bing a wast, as you might say. And don’t give me a surly frown. Be glad that I find you comical instead of menacing. Count your hap as good that you’ve escaped my ire as well as the ward at Newgate and the noose at Tyburn. Tell your master he’ll not see a groat of his money until he meets with me face to face. And tell him I’m keeping your dagger as a present, as we both know it was meant for me in the first place.”

“I got some word to be saying,” Pigsfeet said.

“Speak.”

“If you want to view master Mackering face to face, then go to Cripplegate.”

“When?”

“Twelve of the clock in the heart of night,” Pigsfeet replied.