The Quality of Mercy (43 page)

He stood, dressed quickly, and took out a sovereign from his purse. Her eyes were upon him as he placed the coin upon the table. This time she didn’t refuse the money.

The bells of midnight had long since tolled, but Shakespeare lay wide-eyed on his pallet. So much to plan, so much to do. The North was bleak in winter — the wind furious, the chill its frosted companion. Harry’s dark secrets lay in the region like a corpse in a steel coffin. If Shakespeare was to make the journey, he’d best start out soon, before ice crystallized the air and tempests unleashed their howling rage.

Harry had paid money to Mackering, ostensibly to keep silent about Harry’s practices of worship. There
had
to be more to the story.

Shakespeare thought of Edgar Chambers in his well-lit room, merrily adding up his money, boastful, a self-satisfied smile on the young, snot-nosed face. The bastard had meant to lead Shakespeare to Mackering — to death — and God only knew why Mackering had saved him.

Why
had
he been freed?

Mackering’s last words rang in Shakespeare’s ears. His tone of voice. The ruffian had seemed
glad
that Shakespeare was continuing on his quest to find Harry’s murderer — as if Shakespeare’s vengeance were almost his own. He could only conclude that Mackering wanted Harry’s slayer found in order to enact his own punishment and that he, Shakespeare, was to be the guide to the killer.

Then why had Mackering imprisoned him, tried to break him? True, Shakespeare had in his possession money filched from Mackering’s men, but it was his impression that Mackering never intended to kill him, coins notwithstanding.

Mackering wanted to find out how much he
knew
about Harry’s murder.

Or Mackering just desired to toy with him, to exert his power, weaken his manhood.

Caligula
.

Shakespeare sighed. He wanted nothing more to do with the monstrous uprightman, had kept his word and given Mackering back his money. Mackering seemed to be keeping his promise as well. Since his release, Shakespeare had experienced no troubles from Mackering, and that was all that mattered to him. Would his liberty continue unbothered as he made new inquiries — possibly indicting inquiries?

Maybe, maybe not.

Many questions, few answers. In several days he’d leave for the North. His recovery had taken up most of fall and there was but a month left before God’s fury made travel impossible.

He closed his eyes, but sleep evaded him. Slowly, he rose and lit the wick of his candle. His neglected papers and quill lay upon his worktable like scorned lovers. It had been so long since he’d written. He sat down at his desk and uncapped his inkpot, but was interrupted by a frantic knock on his door.

Grabbing his dagger, he was astounded to hear Rebecca’s voice on the other side. Quickly, he unbolted the latch and opened the door.

She was dressed as a man, but the masculine garb did little to hide a thin face pale and frightened. Her hands were clasped together, but still they shook visibly. She entered his closet and Shakespeare shut the door behind her.

Immediately she hugged him, laid her cheeks wet with tears against his nightshirt. He seemed startled by the intensity of her embrace, but a moment later he was hugging her just as tightly. She wanted to melt inside his body, find refuge under his skin, be rocked to the rhythmic beat of his heart.

She knew that after what she’d done to him it was sheer gall to come like this. But there was no one else to turn to.

“What news, Becca?” Shakespeare whispered. “What evil portent has driven you to me?”

“I’m so scared,” was all she could answer. How should she begin? She felt Shakespeare trying to ease her into a chair, but she was too taut to sit. She sprang up and clutched him again. She spoke in clipped, rapid sentences.

“You must think me horrid! To come to you. Wretched and frightened. I discard you. Like muck. Then leech your skin when I’m in need.” She looked at him with red, swollen eyes. “I should have never bid you adieu. I should have defied the wishes of my elders…. I’m weak, William. If you’ll help me, I promise—”

“Hand me not the gift of love wrapped in conditions, Becca. I gave you my blessings at our last encounter and I meant them truly. You had my pardon then, you have my help now. What frightens you so?”

Rebecca took a deep breath, then forcibly exhaled. She unfurled her fists and dropped her hands to her sides, leaving wet wrinkles in Shakespeare’s nightshirt. For the first time tonight, she studied Shakespeare’s face. It was so worn, so haggard. His eyes were tired and troubled. His tooth had been chipped.

“What misfortune has come to you, Willy?” Rebecca asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Your face…” She touched his cheek. “It’s so thin—”

“It’s nothing—”

“Not so,” Rebecca insisted. She grabbed his hands. “Tell me!”

“Your problem first, Becca,” Shakespeare said.

Rebecca didn’t answer him, continued to look at his eyes.

“Pray,” Shakespeare said, kissing her fingers. “Speak.”

“Very well.” Rebecca was drawn back to her present woes. She forced her voice to be calm. “The news concerns my father.” She tucked a loose strand of hair under her brother’s cap. “He’s… oh merciful God! He’s been arrested!”

There was a long moment of silence. Rebecca began to pace.

Shakespeare asked, “What are the charges?”

“I’m not certain. I overheard the words ‘conspiracy and sedition’ against the crown.
None
of it is true!”

Her face had turned even whiter. Shakespeare had never seen her so terrified. He asked, “When was he arrested?”

“Three hours ago. My uncles and brother left with him to plead his case to Sessions come the morning. We’ve dispatched word to my other uncle, the Duke of Mytilene — Oh Will, I’m terrified! Yet I shudder to burden you with my troubles after the way I’ve treated you.”

“I embrace your woes happily.”

“Oh my dearest, never would I have imposed upon you like this, but lives are at stake — not just my father’s, but another’s as well. Dear God, I have so much to tell you and the time passes too quickly…. Willy, my love, remember back to the day of our drinking?”

“Yes.”

“I told you I was of the old religion.”

“A Papist, aye.”

“I’m not a Papist. I…” She put her hand to her mouth, then removed it. “I follow older customs.”

Shakespeare looked at her quizzically.

“I’m a converso, Will. I am of Jewish blood. Though my family is outwardly Christian, we secretly retain many of our old Mosaic customs. If our practices were discovered and properly exploited by some wicked nobleman, we could be branded as Jews and deported according to the laws of the land.”

Shakespeare stared at her. “You’re a
Jewess
?”

Rebecca paused before she answered. “Yes,” she said. “I consider myself a Jewess.”

“But you were baptized into the Church of England, Becca,” Shakespeare said. “That makes you as Christian as I.”

She didn’t answer him.

Shakespeare said, “You were baptized, were you not?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“It doesn’t
matter
?” cried Shakespeare. “God save your soul, for you know not what you say!”

Rebecca looked at him, seeing a different man. A Gentile loathing a Jew. Tears formed in her eyes. Her grandam had been right after all.

She said, “I was wrong to come here. Forgive my intrusion.”

Shakespeare grabbed her arm. “I pray you, tell me why you came?”

“What’s the use? I see in your eyes that you think me unclean and venal.”

“No, Becca,” Shakespeare said. “You misread me. I’m confused. I’ve never seen a Jew before, much less… loved one. Yet I did love thee, love thee still…” He sighed. “But now is not the time to sew the seams of a ripped heart. Tell me about your father.”

She broke away from his grip and began to walk in circles. “My father is a true prince among men.” She stopped, then said, “He was dreadful to you that day, Will. But he’s not really fashioned with so hot a temper.”

“I understand,” Shakespeare said.

“How do I make these confessions without you thinking him a traitor? I falter to find the proper words.”

“Speak. I’ll say nothing.”

Rebecca hesitated, then said, “My father was involved in a dangerous scheme. He was dealing covertly with His Majesty Philip the Second of Spain—”

“God’s blood!” Shakespeare blurted out. It was his turn to pace. “Your father deals secretly with the
Spanish
?”

“It’s not what it seems!”

“But what it
appears,
Becca. A Spanish… Jew who has secret trade with England’s foe. He should be torn apart limb by limb if it were known!”

“I know,” Rebecca said. Once again her eyes began to fill with tears. “But it’s not as you say. Father is
not
a traitor!”

“Then what was his business with Spain?”

“Business of the
heart
. My father was trying to free our people from the tryannies of the Inquisition. He was paying off His Majesty to close his eyes to the people we smuggle out of his land.”

“Secret Jews?” Shakespeare said.

“Aye, conversos like me. Converted Christians who practiced the old customs. Conversos who were previously warned by the Holy See to cease the ancient ways. These conversos, when caught, are considered
relapsos
and condemned to the stake.”

“Jews,” Shakespeare repeated.

“Yes, Jews,” Rebecca said. “We’re people, Willy. And like the baptized, we feel pain and scream when tortured.”

Shakespeare winced at the well-placed barb. He said, “I pray you to refrain from harsh speech… though I’ve given you reason.”

“I feel so
alone
.”

“And I’ve done nothing to comfort you,” Shakespeare said softly. “I’m so… surprised, Becca. There hasn’t been a Jew in the Isle for over three hundred years…. But pay me no heed. You stand in front of the drawn arrow, and tis cruel of me to quarrel with you. What can I do for my sweet Rebecca?”

She dried her eyes on her shirtsleeve and quickly said, “There lived in our house a certain weasel named Manuel de Andrada — an evil churl, a known liar and traitor. He was a spy for Don Antonio — the Pretender to the Throne of Portugal. He was in Don Antonio’s service when he met my father — my family. My father was Don Antonio’s physician. My father —
as well as England
— supported the Pretender in his attempted coup to free Portugal from Spain. Being a true and loyal man, Father continued supporting the Pretender even
after
the revolt failed — until Don Antonio had become completely daft, a lunatic muttering plots of revenge against the world.”

“Your father supported the overthrow of Philip in Portugal. Yet now he deals with Philip.”

“Gold is an excellent maker of truces,” said Rebecca. “My father first supported Don Antonio because the Pretender’s mother, Yolanda Gomez, was a Jewish conversa. Our people had hoped that some tolerance toward our beliefs would follow once Don Antonio wore the royal crown. But it never came to pass.”

“Go on,” said Shakespeare.

“Three weeks ago,” Rebecca said, “this cellar rat, de Andrada, defected from our household and departed for places and sanctuaries unknown. Methinks he sold family secrets to Essex — my father’s bitterest enemy. Lord Essex has wanted my father’s throat for many, many months, solely because Father opposes his War Party.”

“Spain doesn’t understand kindness, only its enemies’ strengths as witnessed by the Armada.”

“If Essex has his way, he shall lead England into war with Spain, costly battles that will strip the crown of its treasury — and all for his
own
glory. And if I may be so bold to speak, the lord has his own eye on
Her
Majesty — the crown itself. My father opposes war. He wants a stable England, a peaceful England—”

“And he wants to continue his negotiations with Philip for Jews, which is impossible if the state is at open war?”

Rebecca folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t expect you to understand the gravity of his work, but at least know this. My father is
not
an agent for Philip! He is a faithful subject of the crown! His arrest — a creation of Essex — will be proven malicious as well as false.”

“Then what need have you of me?”

“You must help me save Miguel.”

She took a deep breath, then explained to him the mission. How her family paid Philip to turn his back on Jews —
relapsos
— stowed in ships docked in Spanish land, Jews subject to the Inquisition. The
relapsos
were condemned to death, the mission their only chance of survival.

Rebecca said in a shrill voice, “Oh my sweet Will, if you knew of the Holy See and its atrocities! How these
relapsos
suffer — women and children as well! My grandam, blessed am I to have such a goodly grandam, spent her teens in a blackened dungeon — raped, beaten, burned, drowned with water because she held different beliefs, because she didn’t eat the flesh of swine! Because she changed the linens on Friday! And for what?”

“Calm—”

“I will not be calm! Can’t you see the horrors of which I speak!”

“Hush! The thunder of your voice shall put us both in danger.”

Rebecca burst into tears, melting into Shakespeare’s open arms.

“You’re overcome with grief,” he said quietly.

“I have no time for grief.” But she sobbed as if grief were all she possessed. “I want my father!” she wailed.

“Catch the rhythm of your breath, Becca. You’ll become lightheaded if you gasp waves of choppy sea.”

“I love thee,” Rebecca cried out.

Shakespeare took her hand and kissed it. “I know well of torture, Becca. I pray, continue when you’re able.”

Rebecca wiped her salty cheeks. In a slow voice she explained to Shakespeare how the ships bearing the stowaways would sometimes dock in England. Once here, her family would aid those smuggled aboard. Miguel would steal onto the ships, present the stowaways with citizens’ papers that allowed them to live legally as Jews in the Low Countries.