The Quality of Mercy (21 page)

All around her were people, stepping over her as if she were a rock. The sun had finally made an appearance, though the skies were still gray. Hawkers screamed out their wares. To her left was a spike implanted in the ground and topped with the head of a convicted rogue. He’d been skewered on the pike for a while, judging from the gray color of the skin and the plucked-out eye sockets. A crusted brown slab of muscle that had once been a tongue hung out of its mouth. Though many heads decorated the gate of London Bridge, this one, so close to where she sat, made her stomach weak. At least it didn’t ruin her mood. She was already full of gloom.

Lost and forlorn, a self-loathing dolt who had to bite her lip so she wouldn’t cry. It was well that God made her a woman. She hadn’t the strength of mind, and would have been pitiful had she been born a man. The stars knew of what they spoke.

After a few minutes of reflection, she stood up, still breathless, and peered over the side of the bridge. A furious eddy of water swirled beneath the pilings — the only spot of the river that raged continuously regardless of how calmly flowed the Thames. Rebecca had once asked her mother about it, why in that one place the waters always ranted and raved, but her mother had ignored the question and hurried her along to Cheapside.

Rebecca regarded the angry seawater, its ire filling her with unexplained sorrow. She watched the whitecaps explode to spray for a minute, then began her walk home. She hadn’t gone more than five steps when her arm was suddenly seized from behind. She spun around.

“You’ve been following me,” Shakespeare said.

She felt light-headed. Her free hand grasped the handle of her sword.

“You’re mistaken, sir.”

“Why are you following me?” Shakespeare felt her arm, her wrist, her hand through her gloves. “Are you of this earth?”

A smile spread across Rebecca’s lips. His eyes were feral — wild but confused. He hadn’t wished her any harm specifically. The man was simply crazed.

“I think you unwell, goodman,” she said, yanking her arm away.

The voice, Shakespeare noticed immediately. It was not the same one he’d heard last night. This one was thin, barely beyond the stage of its mannish crack.

“I’ve seen you before, sir,” he said. “As a woman.” He raised his hand toward her beard but Rebecca swatted it away.

“You’ve been touched by the moon, sirrah,” she said.

“By the blood of Jesu, you were a woman,” he said. “Will your conjury next turn you into a black cat? Or is that your natural form? Then I shall tell you get thee to Gehenna.”

Rebecca felt a chill down her spine. Far better to be a mere woman dressing as a man than a witch.

“Again you’re mistaken, man,” she said, frightened. “It is apparent that you’re in much need of rest, so I will excuse your molestation. You’d do well if you’d accept your error and be off. Being a proper gallant, I’m willing to forget this mishap.”

“You were at Henry Whitman’s funeral.”

Rebecca felt her skin go hot.

“I know the great player by reputation only,” she said. “I was most certainly not at
his
burial.”

“But you were, sir,” Shakespeare insisted.

“A wise man leaveth in peace, sir,” Rebecca answered.

“You were at Harry’s funeral. Those same gray orbs that do mock me now did stare at me then as pinpoint daggers.”

“Your mind is playing tricks upon your eyes.”

“Nay, tis your beard that is playing tricks upon my eyes.”

“Do you say I was there when I say I wasn’t there?”

“I say you were there.”

“Then whoever claims I was there lies in his throat,” Rebecca said, then gasped. The words had come out as if catapulted by their own power.

They stared at each other in silence.

A witch indeed, Shakespeare thought. Beguiling him to a duel, knowing full well her mystical powers were no match for his mortal skills. But the wheels of the cosmos halted for no man. The die had been cast and it was too late to alter the events. He was undone.

“Do you call me a liar, sir?” he asked.

Rebecca swallowed dryly. As a proper gentleman she had no choice but to continue the pretense.

“I say, goodman, that whoever claims me to be at Henry Whitman’s funeral does lie in his throat.”

“I claim you there,” he whispered. “You were there dressed as a woman. But now I know that you are a witch.”

“You lie in your throat,” Rebecca said.

Shakespeare removed a glove from his belt and tossed it on the ground.

The fates were dancing merry tonight, she thought. She bent down and picked up the glove.

The sight of the glove in Rebecca’s hand immediately drew a crowd — from gallants and rogues, the lords with the drunkards. They began to place wagers with one another on the outcome of the impending duel. Citizens’ wives passing the scene scoffed at the tomfoolery and waste of money. Pickpockets and cutpurses flexed their fingers with gleeful anticipation. A sour-faced Puritan shouted from the back that they were all sinners, all damned to eternal Hell, as betting and dueling were agents of the Devil.

Rebecca looked around. By Divine command the performance had begun. All in the stars. She backed up from Shakespeare and drew her sword, snapping her wrist several times, hearing the whoosh of the blade slice through air.

She had often sparred with Thomas when they were children. He had bested her easily by the time they had reached eight but continued to taunt and tease her with his weapons. He’d loved to see her burst into a fit of temper and charge him with all her might. How swiftly he had riposted her advances, leaving her on her arse, cursing fiercely. Then one day, in a moment of kindness, he had taken her aside and had taught her discipline — how to hold back as well as how to charge. The lessons were repeated several times a month for about a year.

Aye, Thomas had been a valuable tutor. She hoped she’d learned his teachings well. Her life depended on it.

She hefted Thomas’s sword several times. It was the newest of weaponry — a superb rapier, the blade imported from the Continent and perfectly balanced, the point deadly. It was not at all like the clumsy broadswords she’d played with as a child. She drew her dagger, brought the blade of her rapier to her forehead and snapped it downward. Her opponent did the same. She positioned herself for the onslaught.

The duel began.

Rebecca knew by Shakespeare’s size and musculature that she was no match for him. His strength could topple her in a moment. Her footwork would be her only savior — perhaps she could dance with him to a passageway fifty yards away. It was a maze she’d known well, having lived on the bridge seven years ago. The passageway led to a sinuous conduit that meandered between buildings, houses, and shops — turning sharply at two places, forking at three. Ben and she had often played hide-and-seek in the labyrinth. If she could duck in at the crucial moment, she could escape — disappear and never more be a man. Save her and her father extreme embarrassment.

If only…

Shakespeare seemed hesitant, as if he sensed something was wrong. Perhaps he was frightened to duel with a “witch.” He kept staring at her with those impenetrable eyes. So be it. If he thought her a witch, she’d use it to her advantage.

She thrust her sword outward, lunged, and felt the clash of metal upon metal.

Shouts and cheers filled the air.

Shakespeare parried her stoccata to his right shoulder with his dagger, and Rebecca immediately took a couple of steps backward to free her sword. She lunged to his left. He parried, flipped his rapier under hers, and charged toward her leg. His sword was arrested by a parry with her rapier, and she riposted with a punta reversa. He blocked the blow with his dagger, then pushed the point of his rapier toward her throat, narrowly missing it by inches. Only quick reactions had saved her neck.

The crowd roared with delight.

She danced backward, assumed a neutral position, then lunged at his heart. He parried the attack, then riposted with an imbroccata to her stomach, his chef’s hat falling off with the sudden jolt. She parried, crossed the top of his blade with her own, feigned a stoccata to his left shoulder, then charged to his right. He was too quick with his dagger. He blocked her attack, tried to land a cut on her arm, but she stepped backward, out of his reach.

And backward again.

How many yards remained to the mouth of the passageway? Twenty, thirty at most. Lead him over. She backed up another two yards.

They circled each other like gaming cocks. He lunged, she retreated. She feigned a move, her only purpose to keep him at bay until she could get to the tunnel.

The crowd became impatient with their galliard, crying for them to duel, not dance, demanding to see blood or twas no duel of honor.

But Shakespeare seemed to be ignoring their pleas. Abruptly, his countenance had changed. His eyes were no longer wild. Aye, still troubled they were, but not mad. Rebecca was confused. She knew he wasn’t charging her as fiercely as he should. Something was holding him back.

In a blinding moment Shakespeare realized that he wasn’t fighting a witch. He was fighting a mortal — and worse still, he was fighting a lad, or a
woman
. It was the lack of strength in the parry, truly not the defense of a swordsman with magical powers. And the voice. Pitched as one who had recently undergone his manhood. But a woman could lower her voice as well.

Truly he’d been moonstruck. And his madness had entered him into a duel with a poor woman who for some reason had dressed as a man. He’d frightened her at the theater, caused her to flee. Then he had terrorized her further with his sword! Shamed-faced, he longed to call off the mockery.

Fiendish miasma in the air. First Whitman’s death, now this poor child whose life was in his hands.

She lunged at him. He parried easily with his dagger, then tried to knock the rapier out of her hands with a swift stramazorm. But she was too rapid in her retreat, and he was left flailing at air, stumbling over his feet.

A swell of laughter arose from the crowd. As in the theater, they were laughing at his clumsiness. Only this play was not staged.

He cursed under his breath. He didn’t want to hurt this woman — this
girl
— but she was determined to do him harm, her intentions ignited by the fear he’d instilled in her.

And there stood yet another problem. He couldn’t disarm her readily. It was clear enough that she’d been trained in the Italian method of fencing — the school of Vincentio or Caranza. Their pupils mastered swift swordplay — thrusts, instead of slashes and cuts, which were perfectly timed, well-aimed, and
deadly
. What she lacked in force she made up in agility. Her footwork was superb, as fast as a greyhound. Nor had he ever seen a woman of such valor. Mars and Mercury ran strong in her star map.

Again he charged with a stoccata to her right, but she averted the thrust. She riposted quickly and the tip of her rapier caught him on his arm.

Immediately his white sleeve became saturated with a spreading circle of crimson.

He could scarcely think about the shouts. Bigod, she meant to kill him if she could, and it was his own cursed fault. He advanced as she retreated.

He slapped his sword broadside against her wrist, hoping to knock out the sword from her hand, but she held it firmly. The slash cut through her sleeve and left a red line drawn across her arm. Immediately she dropped her dagger and clutched the wound with her hand, turning her glove red and sticky.

The noise of the crowd was deafening.

Suddenly Shakespeare was seized with anger directed at himself. The duel was a total mockery. The rogues that had gathered wanted not avenged
honor
but blood. He was but a moment’s worth of amusement for those who made it not to the baiting rings. He’d be damned before he’d allow this poor thing to end up as a chained bear with a mastiff at her throat.

Shakespeare swung his rapier as if it were a broadsword and knocked her rapier loose, sending it spinning through the air. He thrust the point of his sword against the bob of her throat and backed her up against the wall of a skinner’s stall. The putrid smell from the curing hides penetrated his nose and caused his eyes to water. He felt his head go numb, swimming with cheers of “Kill him! Kill him!”

Their eyes locked. Not a trace of fear lived in hers. She meant to die valiantly.

Slowly he withdrew his sword from her neck and backed away from the wall. When he had retreated several yards, he turned his back on her and went to retrieve her sword. The fine steel blade was still sharp and in one piece. Picking up the rapier, he regarded the handle — gold ring guards etched with the initials T. A. in the Italian hand. The steel was Austrian made, Innsbruck temper. He stashed her sword, as well as his own, in his sling and slipped his dagger into its sheath.

When he looked back at the wall, she was gone.

The crowd jeered his performance.

It wasn’t the first time.

To the Devil with all of them, he thought.

He walked over to his fallen chef’s hat and bent down to retrieve it. He felt a wind flying past his head and heard the clink of steel upon plaster. He spun around and saw a dagger lying on the cobblestones.

Had he not been kneeling, the dagger would have punctured his heart.

He picked it up and immediately noticed that the poniard’s handle had not the same insignia as the handle of his newly vanquished sword. The blade seemed to be northern English or Scottish in origin, clumsily thick and brittle, poorly annealed, clearly a different quality than the imported blade she had thrust at him. Shakespeare turned about, then saw
her
dagger lying where she’d dropped it.

Either he’d gone completely daft or there was yet a witch after him.

The hag had been born with the hearing of a bat, her God-given gift heightened long ago by years of solitude in a pitch-black cell. Crying was her specialty. She was supremely adroit at distinguishing between tears of sorrow, torture, joy, and death. The crying she now heard was a mixture — a pinch of pain blended with heavy sobs of shame — Rebecca’s voice, and it was strange to hear her weep. Even as a babe in arms, rarely had Rebecca cried. As a woman she was quick with fits of temper but slow to moisten her eyes. The hag was curious as to what had caused her such humiliation, but knew she’d find out soon enough.