The Quality of Mercy (77 page)

She walked over to the window and peered into a steely sky. “Do I believe he is guilty of consorting with the enemy? There is no question the answer to this is yes. Do I believe he wished me malice… I know not. How would he have benefited from my demise?”

She waited for an answer.

Rebecca said, “My father would have gained nothing.”

“Money, from His Majesty Philip?”

“No godly creature would dare compare mere coins to the heavenly graces that madam has bestowed upon us.”

Elizabeth smiled. “In sooth, why
was
he corresponding with His Majesty?”

Rebecca took a deep breath and said, “He was paying His Majesty to redeem those condemned to the atrocities of the
Catholic
Inquisition.”

“Did he redeem some secret Jews as well?”

“Mayhap among the doomed were secret Jews.”

Elizabeth began to pace. Her eyes were deep in reflection, very troubled. “Your father is a fool,” she repeated. “Why didn’t he come to me?”

“He should have done so.”

“A fool,” she said. “A stupid, idiotic dolt.” She turned to Rebecca and said, “But an excellent physician. For eight years under his care I have lived in good health. Yet the Queen’s bench has convicted him of treachery, the good people of England demanded his limbs on the gates of Tyburn. What was I to do but sign the warrant?”

Rebecca knew this question was rhetorical. She said, “Her Majesty rules with truth and justice as her armed companions.”

Rebecca’s answer added to the old woman’s burden. The Queen said, “I shall stay his execution scheduled for April and reflect upon the situation.”

“Thank you, madam,” Rebecca answered. Her lower lip was trembling.

Elizabeth added, “I suppose Ferreira de Gama’s execution must be stayed as well. One goes with the other.” She turned to Rebecca and said, “As long as Roderigo remains in the Tower under
my
auspices, he will be safe. If for any reason he is taken from the Tower, he is at the hands of the law and will be executed. I will double the watch upon him to make certain no attempts are made to remove him from his cell.”

Rebecca prostrated herself before the Queen and wept openly.

“Come, come, child,” Elizabeth chided. “Dignity.”

Quickly, Rebecca dried her eyes and waited for the Queen to speak.

“You may leave,” Elizabeth said.

“Madam?”

“Dear God, what is it now, girl? No fawning words of praise, I hope.”

“I pray you, madam, have I the right to entertain a glimmer of hope that my family might be allowed visitation privileges while Her Majesty conducts most burdensome judgment?”

“You want to see your father?” Elizabeth said.

“Yes, madam. My mother and brother as well—”

“Stop,” Elizabeth said. “You may see your father. Only
you
. You shall carry his wishes — if he has any — to your kinsmen. I’ll not allow anyone else to see him.”

“Yes, madam. Thank you, madam.”

“You may leave,” Elizabeth said. “Someone will take you back to London.”

Rebecca departed before the Queen could undergo another shift of mood.

Rebecca heard the cry of the watchman. It was an hour past midnight, and she lay in Shakespeare’s arms, wide awake, resentful that her lover was sleeping so soundly. But why shouldn’t he sleep? It wasn’t
his
father locked in the Tower, Father’s fate wasn’t held in
his
hands. She sighed out loud. “What is it?” Shakespeare asked, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Go back to sleep.”

Shakespeare didn’t say the obvious, that it was impossible to sleep with her fidgeting and moaning. “Becca, my love, talk to me. Unburden thy soul.”

“Why should thou suffer my ills?”

“Pray, talk to me,” Shakespeare repeated.

“No,” Rebecca said. “Thou should speak to me. Get my mind off of my woes, off of tomorrow and the Tower. Gods, Willy, what will I say to Father?”

“Speak as thou didst with the Queen, Becca. Speak thy heart.” Shakespeare laughed to himself.

“What strikes thee as merry?” Rebecca asked.

Shakespeare said, “Strange what flashes in the mind at times like these. I hear Harry lecturing to me, ‘Suit the action to the word, the word to the action!’ Harry was always giving me bits of advice, especially when he was drunk.” He kissed her softly. “I hope I’m not waxing pompous with thee.”

Rebecca smiled and shook her head no. She said, “Speak to me of Harry’s murder.”

“God’s sointes, Becca—”

“Twill take my mind off tomorrow.”

Shakespeare exhaled, rolled onto his back. He was fully awake now. Speak of Harry’s murder? What was there to talk about? He wasn’t any closer to the solution than he’d been eight months ago and it frightened him. Shakespeare’s father in London — Harry Whitman — the man who’d cared for him in the big city, had nurtured his acting and bookwriting talents. Whitman’s soul wandering eternity, unable to find rest until the murderer was caught.

Think, he screamed to himself. Think! You’re not trying hard enough!

Rebecca asked, “What is it?”

“What is what?”

“Thou hast become silent.”

“Nothing,” Shakespeare said. He noticed his abrupt tone of voice and immediately added, “I love thee.”

“I love thee too.”

“Dost thou?”

“Oh, Will, how could thou believe otherwise?”

“Then why dost thou refuse to come away with me?”

“My shame would brand thee as traitor. Never would I allow that.”

“It matters not to me.”

“Aye, but it matters to me. Think of thy son. Is such shame what thou desires for him?”

Shakespeare turned onto his stomach. His pallet was lumpy and it irritated him. He said, “If we were to flee to Venice—”

“I will not become a Catholic,” Rebecca said flatly.

Shakespeare said, “If thou refuses my God, I will follow thy God.”

“Become a
Jew
?”

Shakespeare said, “Has not a Jew eyes, has not a Jew hands? If I tickle this Jewess, does not she laugh?” He dug his hands into Rebecca’s ribs.

“Stop it,” Rebecca said, giggling.

“Has not a Jew affections, passions?”

“This Jewess does.”

“Then so shall I.”

“Never.” Rebecca turned to Shakespeare and said, “Becoming a Jew, my love, would be thy ruin, I regret to say.”

“Will I be of different form once I pronounce allegiance to thy God? Will I suddenly be bereft of my writing skills, of my acting talents?”

“William,” Rebecca said. “In Venice the Jews live in a ghetto.”

Shakespeare felt his stomach sink. He’d forgotten about that. The Jews, confined behind gates — no Christians entered the ghetto, and the Jews did not come out. No plays were performed behind the iron gates. The city of Rome was the same way.

“Our union is impossible,” Rebecca said. “We must accept our fate—”

“What about Padua?” Shakespeare asked hopefully. “There, Jews are known to live with Christians—”

“Only a matter of time,” Rebecca said. “No, Willy. Even if thou would convert of thy own free will, I wouldn’t run away with thee. To be a Jew is a burden — aye, a burden I have accepted. But I refuse to imprison thee to such a hard existence.”

Shakespeare secretly felt relieved, then cursed his cowardice. Would he really have converted had Rebecca said yes? He doubted the veracity of his own words and hated himself for it. He hugged Rebecca, kissed the nape of her neck. Of the two of them, she was the stronger, the more clever. Had she devoted her energies to finding Harry’s murderer, the fiend would have been tried and convicted by now, his corpse nothing more than ashes in Smithfield. Shakespeare felt Rebecca’s body relaxing in his arms. He held her in silence, and soon her breathing became slow and steady. Maybe it was his willingness to become a Jew that suddenly gave her peace. Whatever it was, Shakespeare was grateful that she’d finally fallen asleep.

He was too alert to try sleeping. His thoughts turned to Harry, to his murder — over and over. Mackering, Chambers, Fottingham, Lord Henley, the Jesuit who was Harry’s true father, the stew Catherine — Cat. Harry’s wife Margaret, who wore her bitterness like armor. Individually they all had separate identities, separate characters. But together they were like a spinning color wheel — the result was dead white.

He tossed them around in his brain. Just white, white, and more white. Then he stopped suddenly. His logic was all befuddled. Start from the beginning of the first trip up North.
Everyone
he conversed with, down to the most insignificant tapster he’d met on the road to Brithall….

No, start with his conversation with Margaret at the funeral.

Could Margaret have killed her husband?

Shakespeare considered the possibility. It seemed absurd — Harry’s death was the reason for her hapless condition. Yet Harry had been a less than ideal husband. His carousing had left Margaret keeping company with time and loneliness. Like Anne…

He shooed away the melancholy thought.

What about the innkeepers he’d met on his first trip up North? He reflected a moment, trying to awaken his dormant memory. They had told him nothing of significance. Harry had told bawdy poetry. He had departed without incident.

His mind began to drift….

The first stop at Brithall. Who had he spoken to there? Lord Henley. No, hadn’t he met a guard at the gatehouse first?

Maybe the guard was a lookout for the Jesuit. Maybe he’d
told
the Jesuit someone was at Brithall asking questions about Harry.

Maybe.

Had he mentioned Harry Whitman to the guard?

Gods, it was so long ago.

The Jesuit. Why would he kill his son?

Then there was Lord Henley. What reason could he have to kill Harry?

Shakespeare thought.

Perhaps Harry had finally decided to follow his calling as a Catholic priest, exposing the family as Papist. Henley had panicked and killed his cousin in a heated argument.

Yet nothing in Harry’s most recent behavior had indicated any impending change.

Shakespeare yawned.

On to Hemsdale.

Alderman Fottingham.

Another yawn.

Then Chambers.

So tired.

No, wait… The stew. The stew had been before Fottingham and Chambers.

Catherine the stew, in the bilberry bushes. Now she was dead.

The stew.

Then the trip into Hemsdale.

The maidens dancing in the street.

Who had he seen before the stew?

The bilberry bushes.

Who had been after the stew?

The hawkers on the street.

The mongers…

A costermonger…

A pear…

He was overcome by sleep. His dreams were restless. His dreams were revealing.

The Thames was crusted with oil and muck, the water reeking of garbage. Rebecca’s stomach was knotted, and the green soup upon which she sailed did little to calm her nerves. At least the waves were gentle, blessed be God. And Shakespeare was with her — she had requested that he be the one to accompany her. His hand stroked hers and she feasted on his touch like a ravenous dog. At first her family had protested the player’s presence, but it had been Miguel who had insisted she be allowed to take him along. She needed his comfort, his love, and it was unwise to upset her in any way. She was their last hope.

The waterman rowed at an agonizingly slow pace. Faster, she wanted to cry out, but she said nothing. She drew her cape tightly around her neck and snuggled against Shakespeare’s chest. Mist coated her face and dampened her hair. She was warm yet she shivered.

What would she say to Father?

She might not even have enough time to speak freely; she had a dozen messages to deliver from the family — her mother’s love, news about the Ames Trade Company, her brother’s ambitions, Miguel’s commerce. With help from Uncle Solomon, Miguel had entered the competitive, mercantile world of the cloth trade. A thousand bells ringing in her head at once. She held in her lap a bag of woolens. Perhaps she’d spend the entire time dressing Father in proper clothes. First the shirt, then the hose, then the socks. Thick socks, triple-knitted. She was muttering to herself. Shakespeare asked her what was wrong.

“Nothing,” she answered. “Nothing at all.”

He held her tightly and said, “Worry not. God is with thee.”

Rebecca didn’t answer.

“I wish thee good fortune, beautiful mistress. Thou deservest fair fate.”

Rebecca mouthed a thank-you. Suddenly she had lost her voice.

The tip of the White Tower peeked through the fog. How far were they now? A mile? A hundred feet? Rebecca felt Shakespeare tighten his grip on her hands. Develin Tower, Beauchamp Tower, Bell Tower… the Middle Tower — the foot entrance to the great fortress.

Rebecca trembled, looked at Shakespeare. He seemed composed, yet on second glance his calmness was a facade. It made Rebecca all the more nervous.

A boat manned by three yeomen warders ordered them to stop. They asked for Rebecca by name, they knew her business. A fat warder boarded their boat, almost tipping it over, and held out his hand to Rebecca.

“I love thee,” Shakespeare repeated.

“I love thee too,” Rebecca said. She picked up the sack that held her father’s clothes, but a fat man confiscated it.

“It’s warm clothing for her father,” Shakespeare explained.

The warder rummaged through the bag and pulled out a blanket. He eyed it, then nodded greedy approval. He wrapped it around his shoulders.

Shakespeare explained, “The man is freezing in prison—”

“The man deserves his neck in a noose!” answered the warder. His voice was deep, ominous. “He’s a traitor. And if ye be his kin, so are ye of treacherous blood.”

Rebecca squeezed Shakespeare’s arm, urging him to cease his protests. It was impossible to prevent the man from stealing. The warder pulled out the hose and held them up to his waist. Too small, he mumbled, stuffing them back in the sack. Disgusted, he examined the shirt, sleeves, and robe, none of which pleased him. He stuffed the clothing back in the sack and shoved it in Rebecca’s face.

Rebecca studied his features. If she ever had the opportunity, she’d report the pig to the Queen. He offered her a hand to help her into the boat, his flesh like chilled dough. She turned to Shakespeare.