The Quality of Mercy (72 page)

Shakespeare hushed her. “Lay upon my pallet.”

He eased her down onto the mattress. She sneezed.

“It’s been some time since the cell has been dusted,” Shakespeare said.

Rebecca blew her nose into a silk handkerchief — one that Raphael had given her. Marry, did everything she treasure dissolve into ghosts? She sneezed again. “It’s the straw,” she said.

“I haven’t changed it yet.”

She stared at the ceiling. Shakespeare held her hand.

“I must see the Queen,” Rebecca said. “Have you any way to get to her? You’ve a reputation as a clever writer. Cannot you write her something magnificent so that her heart must summon you in appreciation? I have it — a love poem!”

Shakespeare said, “If it were that easy, she could set London ablaze with the paper that would fill her chambers. Not a writer in the country would hesitate to bestow amorous words unto his queen.”

“But can they write as you do?”

“Her Majesty does not need another fawning dedication of love. Her Majesty likes to be entertained. She enjoys a well-placed pun along with a well-placed kick in the rear. She enjoys laughing.”

“Then write her a comedy!” Rebecca said. “Oh, never mind. I see the futility of what I speak.”

Shakespeare wasn’t sure whether she meant the futility of her plan or the futility of getting him to cooperate. Either way, she dropped the issue. She tugged on her cap.

“God’s blood, what am I to do?”

“The trial is in two weeks,” Shakespeare said. “Perhaps it is best if we do nothing until we know its outcome.”

“
No!
Once condemned, my father has no choice but to… to die.” Rebecca felt short of breath. “Oh my God! I cannot bear this alone… without her. Marry, I miss my grandam.
She
would have known what to do!”

“I have not the wisdom of the old woman,” said Shakespeare. “But I am here for thee. Thou art positive he’ll be condemned?”

“That weasel lord will be satisfied at nothing less.”

Shakespeare lay down next to her and said, “Tell me the evidence they have against your father.”

Rebecca hesitated, then in a rush of words told him all she knew — de Gama’s coded letter to King Philip, de Gama’s testimony under torture, her ring, a jewel from the old treasury of Spain.

“Twas a gift to Her Majesty, for God’s sake! A gift! How could that have been
payment
for the nefarious deed of which my father has been accused if he gave it to the Queen?”

Shakespeare agreed with her.

“Thou knowest what that asp Essex claimed?”

“What?”

“That my father gave it to Her Majesty with dishonest intent! That he knew how the queen adores trinkets — it’s a trinket at one
hundred
pounds — and was trying to ingratiate himself with Her Majesty.”

“Tis hardly unusual for a subject to give his queen a gift.”

“Exactly! But Essex claims it was payment, and my father, knowing that it was a link between him and King Philip, purposely gave it to the Queen to rid himself of that link. Are those thoughts of logic, I ask?”

“No.”

“So thou seest how fallacious the charges are.”

“But what about the letter?” Shakespeare asked. He stuck a tress of black hair back inside her cap. “You say the words mean one thing, Essex says they mean another.”

“But he has no proof!”

“Save de Gama’s testimony.”

“But that was said under torture!”

Shakespeare didn’t respond. He knew of many men who had been convicted and executed upon much less evidence of malice. Rebecca turned her head and faced him. She saw the defeat in his eyes. Her anger began to abate. It was replaced with hopelessness. Shakespeare felt his heart sink with hers.

“Rebecca,” he said. “We cannot do a thing before the trial. It comes too fast.”

“He will be arraigned, tried, and sentenced to die.” Her voice was flat. “I have had nightmares about it. I have seen him suffer. Was God preparing me, Will?”

He hugged her tightly.

“He’s gone from me,” she said. “Just like everybody I have ever loved.”

“I’m here, my sweet lover.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as thou desirest me, as long as thou needest me.”

She snuggled against his chest and heard her grandam’s voice.

Mayhap you need love to see you through
….

A rarity. A wise
woman
. A wise person regardless of what was between her legs.

Shakespeare said, “Rebecca, I don’t want to indulge you in fantasy but…” He paused.

“But what?” she said, raising her head.

“Tis the Queen’s fashion to make an appearance before her subjects around Lent — a splendid progression. During such time she has been known to bestow a good word upon the commoner. Mayhap… just mayhap our hap will be sweet and we’ll be able to approach her then.”

Rebecca suddenly brightened. “Do you think it possible?”

Shakespeare was cautious. “It’s possible.”

“My God! Shakespeare, you are brilliant! A man far more clever than a man of letters.”

“I’m not saying it will happen but—”

“Oh no!” Rebecca said. She turned morose.

“What is it?”

“My father will have been sentenced by then!”

“The Queen has granted pardons in the past.”

“Not for treason!”

It was the truth, thought Shakespeare. “Perhaps we can get a stay of execu — a stay. Procure enough time for the Queen to review the case against thy father.”

“We have to buy time,” Rebecca said. “The longer he lives, the longer we have to prove the charges false.”

“Yes,” Shakespeare said.

“Thou will help me?”

“In any way I can.”

She embraced him. “I love thee. Dost thou lovest me?”

“Aye.”

“Will thou lovest me now and forever?”

“Aye.” Shakespeare held her and said, “Let us start with the now and work our way to the forever.”

For the first time in months Rebecca smiled. “Tis a long road to forever, Will.”

She placed his hand upon her chest. Shakespeare traced the swells of her bosom with his fingertips. Unbuttoning her doublet and shirt, he liberated a breast and kissed the erect nipple.

“In sooth,” Shakespeare said. “Forever is a long road. But how merry we will be traveling to our destination.”

Their lovemaking was rough and frantic, bursting forth with pent-up passion. They held no desire to tantalize and tease, they had no patience. Only a burning craving to finish so they could start over again. The sand in the glass slipped away yet time stood still. They had loved but a second. Their minds, their desires, ached for more, more, more but their bodies begged them to stop. They fell asleep entangled about one another — hot and sweaty, pulsating with sensation that bordered on pain. They could have slept for hours had fortune allowed. But it did not.

They were awakened by the shattering of glass. A cold draft suddenly gushed through Shakespeare’s closet, extinguishing the glowing cinders — remnants of the fire that had warmed them as they loved. It was Shakespeare who assimilated the circumstances first. Someone had smashed his window.

“Stay down,” he ordered Rebecca.

The room was nearly dark, but still contained enough light for the eye to see objects in muted color. Shakespeare grabbed his dagger and quickly slipped on a pair of hose and a shirt, cursing as he tied the points.

“What is it?” whispered Rebecca.

Shakespeare didn’t answer her. He brushed away the pieces of broken glass and crept about on his belly. He saw the telltale dagger. It was the same type of crude blade that the beast had used against them in the past. Dangling from its handle was a rock. A strong arm had hurled it through the window, a wickedly determined strong arm.

Rebecca saw him holding the dagger, examining the blade. Her blood froze with fear.

“Where is he?” she managed to say.

Shakespeare boldly stood and glared out the window. People, shadows, shades of gray. He could have been any of them. Shadows blend easily into dusk.

“Probably gone,” Shakespeare announced.

“He tried to kill you again.”

“No,” Shakespeare said. “This was a warning, a theatrical ploy meant for my benefit.” He faced Rebecca. “He had left me in peace for a while. No doubt he knew that Mackering had captured me. Maybe he thought that Mackering had killed me. Then I reappeared up North and he realized I was still among the living, still on the hunt for my mentor’s murderer. He followed me back to London. And this time he means to do me final harm.”

“It doesn’t make sense, Willy,” Rebecca said. “He wouldn’t
warn
you. He’d just sneak up and
kill
you.”

“He
wants
me to know, Rebecca. He wants me to quake with fright, to turn my head at every sudden sound. My tension amuses him.”

He began to pace, thinking: Mackering had enjoyed playing tricks with his brains. Maybe the shadow was Mackering all the while, the ruffian planting false trails for play before a final trap was set.

Rebecca asked in a shaky voice, “What is going on?”

Shakespeare shot the offending dagger at the wall. The blade sank into the soft-planked cedar, the rock swinging from its handle.

“I do not know,” he said.
“I… do… not… know!”

With sudden rage he marched over to the wall and pulled the knife free. He stabbed the wood siding over and over, each stick of the blade punctuated by a strangled scream.

“Calm, Willy,” Rebecca begged. “Calm.”

He kept stabbing.

Rebecca walked over to him and touched his shoulder. He whirled around, eyes wild with fury. He threw the dagger across the room, kicked the wall, cursed and stomped.

Someone was knocking on his door. He didn’t care. He picked up his trestle table and threw it against the wall. It crashed and came apart, falling to the floor in three pieces. Fruit skittered across the floor, rolled about like bowling balls.

“Willy, stop!” Rebecca pleaded. She didn’t approach him this time. She dared not get in his way.

He saw his dagger, picked it up, then plunged it into his pallet. Ripped the fabric into shreds. Straw flew about the room like a windstorm. When his mattress was destroyed, he screamed and kicked the wall again.

The knocking on his door became banging. A female voice yelling from the outside. Rebecca was shouting too.

The devil with it!

He spied his desk as if he’d never seen it before. As if it were an enemy to be annihilated. With a single swoop of his arm he swept his quills and inkpot onto the floor and jumped on them. The spilt ink was immediately soaked up by the rushes, turning them black. He grabbed his desk. Lifted it into the air.

“Stop it!” Rebecca screamed. “STOP IT!”

He paused a minute, took in her words. He looked at her. She was staring at him, terrified. He was holding his desk. What in Heaven’s name was he doing with his desk of nine stones in his arms? The weight drew his arms downward. He dropped the desk and it fell to the floor with a thud.

The pounding upon his door continued.

“What in the devil is going on!” screamed a raspy feminine voice. His landlady — Inus Meadhead. Meathead, Shakespeare called her behind her back.

“It’s nothing!” Shakespeare shouted. “Nothing at all. Go back to your cell and my apologies for the racket.”

“I heard a heap of caterwauling, Willy,” Inus said harshly. “Who you got in there with ye?”

“Mind your own business, buswife!” Shakespeare roared.

“Up yours, you bald woodcock!” Inus screamed back. Her footsteps receded and were followed by a slamming door.

Shakespeare kicked the wall again. He was panting.

Rebecca stared at him, at the room.

Shakespeare nudged the black rushes with his toe. He said, “The straw needed changing anyway.”

“Art thou well?” she asked.

“A moment of madness was all,” he said. “I’m well… I think.”

“Sit down,” Rebecca said.

Shakespeare didn’t move.

“Marry, what a mess!” Rebecca said.

Shakespeare ran his fingers through his hair — what little he had left. Bald woodcock! The old harpy! His eyes fell upon Rebecca. She was still naked, her skin studded with goose bumps.

Gods, she was delectable.

She broke into a shy smile, her eyes settled below his waist. Shakespeare stared at his bulging hose.

“Troth, I thought not I had it in me,” he said.

“How I wish I had it in me,” Rebecca retorted.

Shakespeare laughed. Quickly, he gathered a pile of straw and covered it with a blanket.

“Suitable?” he asked.

Rebecca pushed away grisly thoughts of her father’s imprisonment.

Grab all the happiness you can, girl
.

“Twill do,” she said.

He jumped onto the pile and held out his arms. Rebecca lay down beside him, still shivering with cold. He placed her on her back. Within moments he was on top of her, pounding at her. Gods, she was sore. The ends of the straw had poked through the blanket and were scratching her back. But she didn’t say a word about it. She was content.

For an instant Roderigo Lopez understood nothing of what was being said. Then he remembered: they’re speaking in English. So disoriented he was, his thoughts had slipped into his childhood tongue of Portuguese. Happier years.

Roderigo forced himself back to the present. He was at Guildhall — a Norman stone edifice, the seat of English justice. Countless trials had been held here. But this was
his
arraignment. The walls of the chamber seemed inordinately tall, the coffered ceiling monstrously broad. From a three-by-five cell to this. Life was on a grander scale. People were bigger, noises louder, the sunlight intensely bright — he’d been squinting since they took him out of the Tower. They’d transferred him in daylight.
Daylight!
He’d forgotten what that was.

The Tower — how long had he been confined there? If today was the twenty-eighth of February, he’d been locked up for nearly six weeks.

Rebecca! Sarah! Benjamin
— his only living son. He wept when he thought about him. Sarah and Rebecca were strong. But the boy —
his
boy! God keep him.