The Quality of Mercy (81 page)

“What?”
Rebecca whispered.

“It’s the truth. The Jesuit’s own lips told me as much.”

“Harry was a bastard?”

Shakespeare nodded. “For all the world to see, Harry was the legitimate son of Lord Chesterfield. But only his mother knows for sure, eh?” Shakespeare leaned against the wall. “But Mann didn’t kill Harry because he was a bastard. Mann killed Harry because he mistakenly thought that Harry had lain with the priest, that Harry was a buggerer. To lay with a whore is a sin, but to lay with a man is a grievous sin punishable by death.”

Rebecca curled up against Shakespeare’s chest. “Then Mann thought thou wast a buggerer as well, because I was with thee dressed as a man — a boy, actually.”

“Yes,” Shakespeare said. “The first few times, Mann merely wanted to cease my inquiries about Harry — to warn me away from him. The dagger at the duel, the bump on my head in the middle of the night — nothing mortal. But after he saw me making merry with thee, he wanted us both killed — according to God’s law.”

“Then what of Mackering and the murdered innkeeper?” Rebecca asked.

“Both were extorting money from Harry.”

“To keep the Jesuit’s presence at Brithall a secret from the authorities.”

“Aye.”

“Then why did Mann kill Chambers and the stew? Was Chambers a buggerer as well?”

“I think not,” Shakespeare said. “No, not at all. Chambers wanted me out of the way for his own selfish reasons. He didn’t want me learning the affairs of a small town — his source of extortion income. But the innkeeper was too cowardly to do the work himself. He sent me to Mackering, figuring the uprightman would do me in. But for some reason Mackering did not kill me.”

Shakespeare hesitated a moment, then said, “I don’t think Mann killed the stew and Chambers. The Puritan hated the stew, thought her a witch. Biblically speaking, he was justified in killing her. But Chambers? The man was a user of whores, an extortionist, but I’ve never seen it written that thou shalt not suffer the extortionist to live. Mann is a fanatic. In his own twisted thinking he could not commit a murder without a biblical passage to support him.”

“Then who killed Chambers and the stew?”

“There are only two people left who might have done such a thing. An alderman in Hemsdale named Fottingham or the uprightman himself — George Mackering. What Fottingham did or didn’t do is of no concern to me. I interest myself in Harry’s murderer only. But Mackering and I still have things to settle between us.”

“What kind of things?”

Shakespeare didn’t answer. He looked up at St. Paul’s Cathedral, its spire rising and disappearing into the fog. Dawn would be upon the city soon, the sun piercing through the gloom, highlighting the east side of the church’s Gothic tower in gold.

“That’s where I’m going,” Shakespeare said. “Mann will be right outside the churchyard soon, standing on a wooden box, ready to preach doom and destruction to all who pass lest they repent.”

“How dost thou know?”

“He was there yesterday, many days before yesterday as well. He was at that spot the day I walked with thee to the Mermaid.” Shakespeare bent down and picked up a rock. He threw it over the wall. “It’s his spot, and he’ll be there today. But so will I.” He turned to Rebecca, his eyes as hard as granite. “Now I will walk thee home.”

She returned his own stare with a determined look of her own. “I will not go back unless thou forcibly carries me home. Even then I will fight thee all the way!”

Shakespeare grabbed her shoulders. “Stay away!” he ordered. “I cannot do what I must with thee in my way.”

“Still I shall remain,” Rebecca said.

They were locked in icy combat. Shakespeare knew he couldn’t convince her by logic. Dear God, she was stubborn. He considered tying her up and carrying her home. Or he could carry her across the city and lock her in his closet.

He never had the opportunity to do either.

A black figure bearing a wooden crate was approaching them. Shakespeare tensed. He straightened his posture and waited, his hand resting upon the hilt of his sword.

“This is thy last chance to get thee gone,” he whispered frantically. “Under the wall, Becca.”

“I’m staying by thee, Willy.”

Shakespeare pushed her out of the way and stepped toward the figure. He shouted, “Ho, Mann! So we meet again. Not as the cowardly killer desires, but rather face to face.”

Still walking toward Shakespeare, the figure emitted a horrible, rasping sound. “If I would have wanted ye dead, I could have killed ye many times over, evil player. I was just toying with ye brain — which I must say is less than clever.”

“Aye, you’ve a point,” Shakespeare said. “You might wonder what took me so long to name you Harry’s slayer.”

“I might,” said Mann, his face hidden under the hood of a sackcloth robe. “Then again, I might not.” He laughed. “I saw ye looking at me yesterday, sinner, with ye filthy eyes. Did ye think ye could play me for a fool!”

He looked at Rebecca and spat, then turned back to Shakespeare. “Ye are as wretched as ye muck-filled sinner in Hell, Harry Whitman. I tried to warn ye when I saw ye with the whore named Cat. Ye were following his filthy ways — first the whores, next boys. But ye listened not and became an abominator just as he.”

“Harry was not a buggerer,” Shakespeare said. “And neither am I. But even if we were, tis not up to you to execute God’s judgment.”

“Whitman was an abominator
and
an idolator. The latter, God will punish. But tis I who must eradicate the former sin. I am the hands of God.”

Shakespeare said, “Never had Harry lain with his priest.”

Mann smiled, his eyes burning with an unholy anger. “Not the priest, may the Jesuit rot in hell. The uprightman.”

Shakespeare paused, then said,
“Mackering?”

“Aye, accursed Mackering,” Mann said. “And though he be strong, he, too, shall feel the wrath of God upon him. The worst is saved for last. So it be, player, that ye sinner, Whitman, was an abominator and so are ye.” Mann cocked his head in Rebecca’s direction. “What is this filthy toy with which ye dally?”

Before Rebecca could speak, Shakespeare interrupted. “Tis not of your concern.”

“All abominators are my concern. I am the hand of God!”

“I’m a woman,” Rebecca said, removing her cap. Hair tumbled down her shoulders, across her back.

The Puritan was momentarily stunned. “Ye and the Jew-girl are the
same
person?”

“Apparently so,” Rebecca said.

“Daughter of a traitor!” Mann said with renewed hatred. “Ye must die as well!” The Puritan reached into his black robe and withdrew a rapier. The metal reflected the first hint of daylight, and the glare blinded Rebecca. She squinted and Mann charged. Shakespeare drew his sword, caught Mann’s rapier, and used his free hand to push her away.

“Run, Becca!” he screamed. “Run, damn thee!”

But she remained welded to the ground.

Mann shouted, “God’s fury upon ye, sinners one and all!” He pulled out a dagger and parried Shakespeare’s stoccata. Shakespeare saw Mann’s blade thrusting toward his groin and tried to parry, but Mann deceived the blade and quickly aimed his point toward Shakespeare’s chest. Shakespeare’s dagger was barely able to catch the rapier before it skewered his heart.

Mann advanced.

“Prepare to meet the Devil,” the Puritan shouted as he pushed Shakespeare against the wall. Shakespeare tried to sidestep past Mann’s left hand, but the Puritan was too quick. His footwork was lightning. Mann feigned a thrust to the right, then slashed against Shakespeare’s left arm as the player attempted to parry with his dagger. Shakespeare’s flesh burned, his arm was warm and wet. He feigned an attack to Mann’s left, lunged, then double-deceived Mann’s blade until the Puritan was forced to yield several inches of space between the wall and his right side. Shakespeare took advantage of the gap and slipped around Mann, but not without consequence. The Puritan’s dagger nicked his shoulder.

Rebecca pulled out her sword. Mann saw her out of the corner of his eye. He retreated, giving Shakespeare room to advance, but strategically placed the player between himself and Rebecca. Too late, Shakespeare realized what Mann was doing.

“Get out of here!” he screamed to Rebecca. “The dog is an expert with a sword!”

Mann smiled at the acknowledgment, then charged Shakespeare. A brilliant move. Shakespeare couldn’t retreat or step out of the way — Rebecca was positioned behind him, ready to receive the fatal blow of the rapier. Shakespeare parried with his dagger, but Mann deceived the block. Shakespeare stumbled forward and Mann seized his opportunity. With a single sweep of his rapier he knocked the blade out of Shakespeare’s grip and placed the tip of his rapier against Shakespeare’s throat.

“Drop the dagger!” Mann ordered.

Shakespeare gripped the dagger so hard that his knuckles turned white. He felt the tip of Mann’s sword break his skin.

“Do it, Willy!” screamed Rebecca. “Drop the dagger, for God’s sake!”

“Listen to ye whore,” Mann said, grinning.

“Get out of here!” Shakespeare pleaded with Rebecca.

Mann said, “Ye move an inch, whore, and ye love is dead where ye stand. Now ye be a good girl and drop all ye weapons on the ground now. I know ye have three.”

Rebecca obeyed. Mann kicked the blades away.

“Drop the dagger, sinner,” Mann repeated.

“Do it, William,” begged Rebecca.

Shakespeare loosened his grip and the dagger clinked upon the ground.

Mann laughed. “Now I have ye two where I want ye.” He pushed Shakespeare back against Rebecca, Rebecca back against the wall. “Like Phineas I’ll kill the adulterer and the fornicatress with one sword!” Mann’s lips curved upward into a crazed smile. He licked his lips. Dawn held enough light to capture the Puritan’s pinched features, the flat look in his mad eyes.

“Don’t even think about moving, Shakespeare,” he said. “I’m faster than ye. Know that well.”

“I know it,” said Shakespeare. Sweat was pouring off his brow.

“My hands are not my hands, but instruments of God,” Mann preached. “I am an instrument of God. He has made me the
most
nimble of fencers, nimbler than ye foul sinner in evil, Whitman… though I must confess, the abominator put up more of a duel than ye.”

“He was a better swordsman than I,” Shakespeare said.

“Ah, but
I
was better than
he
. Whitman felt the rage of my blows, of God’s blows. Twas God who gave me such skills of the fence. God is my shepherd!”

Mann’s eyes suddenly widened. His mouth opened in surprise. He dropped his rapier, coughed and sucked in air. The fiendish smile slowly dropped from his lips. Wordlessly, he fell forward, blood leaking from his nose and mouth. Shakespeare stepped backward and watched Mann slump to the ground, a dagger in his back.

Rebecca cried out, her shrieks echoing against the silence.

A moment later a low voice intoned, “Second nimblest swordsman. And I’ll not praise God for
my
skills!”

Shakespeare looked up, still confused.

“Never let it be said that the master isn’t merciful,” Mackering said, laughing. He walked over to Mann, pulled the dagger from the Puritan’s back and kicked the body. “Imagine that muck heap thinking he could best me in swordplay!”

So it was as Shakespeare thought. Mackering had ordered him followed since his release, the thief just waiting for him to find Harry’s murderer. One of Mackering’s slaves must have seen Shakespeare dueling with Mann, must have reported it to the master. Mackering must have hurried to the scene.

Mackering wanted to know who the murderer was but had been too lazy to do the work himself. The bastard was a cuckoo laying its eggs in others’ hard-built nests. Even though the uprightman had saved his life, Shakespeare regarded him with contempt. But Mackering didn’t seem to notice. He held out Mann’s dagger to Shakespeare and said, “For your efforts.”

“Give me my sword,” Shakespeare said quietly.

Mackering threw the Puritan’s dagger over his shoulder, looped his toe under Shakespeare’s weapon and kicked it over to him. The player caught it by the handle.

Mackering’s eyes darkened, as if they had finally registered the hatred in Shakespeare’s eyes. He said, “You shouldn’t be challenging me, Willyboy. I have nothing against you.” He licked his lips. “In sooth, you could please me greatly.”

“As Harry pleased you?” Shakespeare said.

“Aye, Harry was a great pleaser,” Mackering said.

Shakespeare studied the wicked face, the dead eyes, the flat, yellow hair that hooded his brow, the bloodless lips that had turned upward in a lopsided smile. Mackering was twice the swordsman Shakespeare could ever be. Logic told Shakespeare to cower before him, to make peace for his neck. He, more than anyone, had known Mackering’s villainous way. But as it had been months ago, Shakespeare refused to be broken by evil. Childish thinking he knew, as good does not always triumph over bad. Yet Shakespeare had to believe that this time it would.

“You are more hateful than this lump of turd,” he said, toeing Mann’s dead body. “Chambers was extorting money from Harry, promising to keep quiet about the priest. You were extorting from Harry as well.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Mackering said.

“You extorted not money from Harry, but his body. You thought Harry a buggerer. You thought he had lain with his priest—”

“I regret to tell you, Willyboy, but he did. The whole town knew it.”

“As in Sodom and Gomorrah, the whole town was in error. The priest wasn’t Harry’s lover, he was Harry’s father — his father by blood.”

Mackering looked sharply at Shakespeare.

“Aye,” Shakespeare said. “Harry was no buggerer. Yet, loving his father as he did, Harry permitted you to debase him so you wouldn’t report the Jesuit to the authorities.”

Mackering said, “Harry enjoyed it. He held me in great esteem.”

“Behind your back he spat in your face,” Shakespeare lied. “Aye, he told me what you had done to him. He trusted me, loved me as much as he loathed you, Mackering. He mocked the size of your member—”

Mackering said, “You rile me, Willyboy—”