The Quality of Mercy (29 page)

A body, dropped from above, landed in front of their path — a dehydrated boy covered with boils.

Rebecca muttered a dear God.

“This way,” Shakespeare said, trying to push her away from the corpse. “The tavern’s not far.”

“I’ve no appetite for dinner,” she said.

“You must harden your stomach,” Shakespeare said tightly. “Contemptible is a man who is able not to quaff ale freely while looking death in the eye.”

Rebecca sighed. “Then tis good that the beard is removable. Much as I try, I’m a slave of my emotions.”

“God created women different from men, sir. You would not be true to your sex if you walked through these streets unaffected.”

“Aye.”

They hurried through Paul’s. Shakespeare gave her a gentle pat. “How long has it been since you’ve seen the city?”

“Since our duel. It has become a muck heap.”

“And the muck increases by the hour.”

“Gardy loo,” shouted a voice from an upper window. Shakespeare yanked Rebecca to his right as the contents from a chamberpot splattered on the cobblestones just a yard to their left.

“As if to prove the prophecy of my words,” Shakespeare muttered. He swept his arm across the fouled streets and boomed in a theatrical voice, “Cousin and foreigner alike, a goodly welcome from the jeweled scepter of the sea called England!”

A Puritan pointed an angry finger at him and growled, “Until the Devil has been purged, sin shall clog the bowels of this land.”

“Then we’d better give the land a purging,” Shakespeare said.

“Sinners!” the Puritan shouted. “I know ye all, know ye evil ways.”

Rebecca interrupted the fanatic’s speech by laughing in his stern face — not a laugh of derision but one of released tension from Shakespeare’s awful joke. The Puritan’s black eyes became hot with outrage, and Rebecca would have offered her apologies to the black-garbed mountebank, but Shakespeare pulled her along.

A moment later Rebecca said, “The abbeys on the continent situate themselves on mountains. One reason is an earnest desire to be in isolation, that one may become closer to the Almighty when few distractions present themselves. The other stems from the ability to strategically place their jakes on downhill streams and runoffs. The cities below receive such gifts from the men of God.”

“And from where did you learn that juicy bit of knowledge?” Shakespeare asked.

“My kinsmen have their fingers in many men’s pies.”

Shakespeare said, “Among your diverse relations are monks?”

“Not at all.” Rebecca smiled cryptically. “As false an assumption as saying I’ve had relations with diverse monks.”

It was Shakespeare’s turn to laugh.

A man crusted with sores blocked their path. He was naked from the waist up, a filthy sheet tied around his middle. His hose were torn and blackened with mud, his toes sticking out of holes in his shoes, and his arm inked with the initials F. R. His wrists were red and raw, as if recently manacled, and his hands flapped at his sides. He shouted,

“Now, good sir, what will you give this poor Tom this morrow, wisely and well?” He let go with a high-pitched squeal. “Please, sir, a pound of sheet feathers to make poor Tom a blanket, or a cross of silver to buy poor Tom a shirt and breeches, wisely and well.”

“We’ll be giving you a leaky heart if you’ll not leave our sight,” Shakespeare said.

Poor Tom rolled his head, hiccuped, then spat. To Shakespeare he said, “Good sir. A farthing for a drink, wisely and well.” He attempted to dance a jig but tripped instead. He shouted, “God save the Queen and her council.”

“The man is besotted or daft,” Rebecca said to Shakespeare.

“Or desires us to think him so.”

“A groat for a pair of shoes to cover poor Tom’s aching feet, wisely and well,” Poor Tom screamed out.

“Away,” Shakespeare commanded. Poor Tom laughed and started to speak, but immediately silenced his wisely and wells when Shakespeare’s hand held the hilt of his sword.

“Away,” Shakespeare repeated, drawing his sword.

Poor Tom fled.

They resumed their walk, turning onto Bread Street, elbowing their way through the crowds. After they’d walked a mile, Rebecca asked,

“How far is your alehouse?”

“Another ten minutes from here.”

A lord bumped into Rebecca, looked at her clothes, said nothing and walked away.

“Unmannered churl,” she muttered.

“He’s whittled,” said Shakespeare.

“But through drunken eyes he was still able to determine I was of lower rank.”

“Tis your clothes. Next time, don the dress of a lord. As long as you playact, you may as well receive honor and title.” Shakespeare paused, then said, “But enough blather about rank. All stomachs empty. Come, good sir, let us dine.”

“I’ve yet a stomach,” she said.

“Still come with me hence,” Shakespeare persisted. “If for no other reason than to remove ourselves from the streets.”

The Mermaid was a small tavern between Watling and Cheapside, a comfortable place where many bookwriters came to quench their thirst as well as joust in bouts of wordplay. It seemed to Shakespeare that as soon as they stepped upon its threshold, a black shadow momentarily blocked the sun. Rebecca said nothing, so he remained silent. But his reflexes were immediately on their guard, his muscles taut and ready for action.

They took a table at the far side of the room. Shakespeare rubbed his stomach and ordered mutton and cabbage without a glance at the fareboard. Rebecca requested the same dinner, although her belly was still tightly knotted.

Two overflowing tankards of ale were placed before them. Rebecca took a sip, then healthy gulps, allowing the liquid to coat her parched throat.

“Don’t drink so fast,” Shakespeare said. “You’ll become light-headed.”

“So much the better after the London I’ve seen.”

Shakespeare smiled. Rebecca looked across the table and felt herself growing timid, aware that she was with a man whom she found desirable. She quickly lowered her head. Picking up the tankard, she brought it to her lips and sipped the ale, her eyes peeking over the rim, observing his well-formed face deep in thought. On the streets conversation with him had been so natural, but now, seeing him like this, she was tongue-tied.

Not like her to be the shy maiden. She started to speak at the moment he uttered a word.

“After you, sir,” Shakespeare said.

“Pray, continue in your thought,” she said.

“After you have completed yours.”

“Upon the completion of yours.”

“Better to be unmannerly than to delay you further,” Shakespeare said. “I will begin.”

Rebecca nodded. Shakespeare paused, then laughed nervously.

“And what does strike Shakespeare with humor?” Rebecca asked.

“I forgot the subject on which I was about to speak.” He swallowed a gulp of ale. “Spare me embarrassment, sir, and say your words.”

Rebecca took another sip of ale, her head feeling pleasantly hazy. She leaned over the table and said, “How do you propose to sneak into Mackering’s ranks?”

“In my duties as a player I have been a lord, a gallant, a soldier of fortune, a ghost, a fairy, a fool, a cook, a laborer, and diverse women of all walks of life. I have lived in many centuries and died numerous times in duels, and of injuries and diseases. Once, my life was taken by my own hand, what a sorrowful scene that was.” Shakespeare grinned with the recollection. “I’ll have no trouble playing the scoundrel, slipping into Mackering’s netherworld as smoothly as melted wax upon a newly dipped candle, viewing it as simply another part.”

“Mackering is clever. The uprightman must know you desire his audience. He has thus avoided you. He’ll be looking out for your disguises and will no doubt have a few masks of his own.”

“Then we’ll have to see who’s the more convincing player.”

“And if he ensnares you? Traps you? Threatens you with bodily harm? How are you to protect yourself?”

“Let it happen first, sir.” Shakespeare clenched his fists.

“He’s dangerous.” Rebecca placed her hand upon his arm, then remembered that she was dressed as a man and quickly withdrew her hand. “I present to you another option — an addendum to your original plan.”

“Speak.”

Rebecca fortified herself with a gulp of ale. She said, “Let me come with you—”

“Never!”

“I’ll be your doxy! I can fence. Four armed hands are better than two.”

“Then give me Thomas’s hands. At the least, Thomas’s arms.”

“Stop the puns and listen to me. Thomas would not defend you. But I would. I owe it to you after what you did—”

“Out of the question.”

“But—”

“No!”

“Shakespeare, you saw my skill at the fence. True my strength could easily be bested by any man of substance, but my
footwork!
Find me a nobleman as light on the toes as I… save my cousin, of course.”

Shakespeare didn’t answer her.

Rebecca thought back to their duel. Yes, it had been chilling to look death in the face. But oh how exciting it had been! It had turned her blood truly sanguine, hot with expectation, her heart pumping at full strength. And now was the chance to do something bold and outrageous before the chains of marriage bound her permanently. A last bout of freedom before turning fat and matronly. What memories it would etch into her brain. “Pray, let me help you, Shakespeare,” Rebecca pleaded. Her voice had raised in pitch. She lowered it and added, “The thrill would be
mine
.”

“Tis a solo battle I fight, sir.”

“But it needn’t be that way.”

Shakespeare whispered, “As I recall from conversations past, you have a future husband. Would he give his blessing to your plan?”

Rebecca was silent.

“I thought not,” said Shakespeare. “And when is the knight who sits before me due to take his vows?”

“Answer my question first,” said Rebecca, undeterred.

“First, ask one.”

“May I play your doxy?”

“A most definite no, sir.”

“Then give to me sufficient reason.”

“Your safety.”

“I can care for myself.”

“You’ve just admitted any man of substance can best you. And you’ve warned me that Mackering is much more than any substantial man. You cannot impose upon me the responsibility of your welfare. It’s too big a burden for me. If anything should happen to you, I’d be consumed in guilt.”

Rebecca fell back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest.

“Show the manners of your rank, sir,” Shakespeare chided. There was a twinkle in his eye. “We’re in public.”

Rebecca didn’t answer, but her expression softened. If she couldn’t win her way by the power of her words, perhaps feminine smiles would woo him. She would try again later.

Shakespeare asked, “When are your nuptials?”

“We marry in February — a week after Candlemas.”

Shakespeare raised his tankard. “I wish you much cheer and good hap.”

Rebecca raised her tankard, then sipped her ale.

“Will your future husband allow you to continue masking as a man?” asked Shakespeare.

“I know not,” Rebecca said. “He’s unaware of my peculiarities.” She added, “Though I am well aware of his.”

“Peculiarities?”

Rebecca took another swallow of ale and nodded.

“What peculiarities?” Shakespeare asked.

Rebecca thought a moment, her brain spinning from drink. “A tragedy about Marlowe,” she said.

“Horrible,” Shakespeare said with feeling. Though he wasn’t a close friend of Marlowe’s, Shakespeare had been a great admirer of the poet. To die such a wretched death, stabbed in the back during a heated — and no doubt drunken — argument in a dark tavern at Deptford.

Too many deaths in too short a time.

Glumly, Shakespeare said, “What made you think of Marlowe? Did you know him?”

“My betrothed did. He told me of his death yesterday. It had quite an effect on him.”

Shakespeare asked, “How well did your fiancé know Marlowe?”

“At one point I believe he knew him intimately.”

“Intimately?”

“
Very
intimately.”

“I see…” Shakespeare said, wondering: What kind of marriage would that be? Perhaps the man was a satyr, interested in anyone and anything. He hesitated, then asked, “If I may be so bold to ask, have you and your betrothed…”

She stared at him, then shook her head. “We’ve yet to discuss what we both know.”

“But you intend to live with him as man and wife,” Shakespeare said.

“We will be man and wife, yes,” Rebecca said. “Though I’m sure he prefers me dressed as a knight than dressed as a bride.”

Shakespeare didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say.

Rebecca shrugged and ordered another tankard of ale. “The marriage was arranged by my father.”

“And the agreement is satisfactory to you?”

“My opinion is of no consequence,” Rebecca said. “I know Miguel well if not intimately. I love him greatly, and in his own way he loves me.”

There was silence.

“One could say the arrangement differs little from
your
own lawful wedlock,” she said.

“Not at all,” Shakespeare protested. “Not at all! I’m on most cordial — and intimate — terms with my wife.”

“But you see her little.”

“Not as often as I desire.”

“And no doubt you desire her often.”

Shakespeare laughed, sipped his ale. “Aye. Tis true.”

Rebecca cocked her head. A very ungallant gesture, but one that brought a blush to his cheeks. She asked, “So what do you do when you feel the sting?”

“Tis none of your affair,” Shakespeare snapped.

“Sorry.”

The tapster placed a full tankard of ale in front of Rebecca. She raised it in the air and drank. Shakespeare drummed his fingers on the table. He asked,

“Why did your father arrange for you such an unusual marriage? For title?”

“No.”

“Money?”

“Nay.”

Shakespeare waited.

Rebecca took a huge gulp and coughed. Shakespeare patted on her back. After she dried her watering eyes, she said,

“You’ll not breathe a word of this?”

“Not a peep.”

“He’s my kinsman,” she said.