The Quality of Mercy (24 page)

She bit her lip. “Tis so cruel of you to recut old wounds. So unlike the gentle man that you are. You act as indecent as your brother.”

Thomas’s blush deepened to scarlet. “I apologize,” he said.

Rebecca didn’t respond. She couldn’t. A lump was clogging her throat.

“Truly, I’m sorry for my indiscretion, Becca,” Thomas said.

She straightened her posture and looked him in the eye, forcing up a tearful smile. “I know you are a good soul, Tommy. That your harsh words come from care rather than scorn. I have no need of your apology.”

Thomas lifted Rebecca’s hand to his lips.

“I love thee,” he whispered.

“I know.”

Her fingertips touched his lips, stroked his beardless face. He closed his eyes, then abruptly pulled away from her. Shyly, he asked,

“Did you love my brother — as a lover?”

“Sometimes. Despite his rough talk now, he was gentle back then. I ended our dalliances when he had nothing more to teach me — with his mind as well as his body. As you’ve stated, he was not the swordsman that you were. I’d wanted
you
to continue to school me in the art of the fence. But you pushed me aside and ignored my constant requests.”

“I was ired by your betrayal.”

“I understand,” Rebecca said. “Pray, Tommy, you try to understand me as well.”

Thomas brushed the floor with the sole of his shoe and said, “Did you ever think of me as you loved Dunstan?”

“Many times, Thomas,” Rebecca answered in earnest. “Many times.”

Hamor Lowe kept guard from a muck heap. The smell was foul, but the vantage point was splendid. He could easily espy Mary Biddle trying to urge the coney to bed. The doxy had removed her bodice and sleeve and had unpinned her hair — golden tresses resting on smooth skin twinkling with candlelight. Gods, she was lovely. Just as she’d been that night.

Lowe sighed as he reminisced. Mary had been such a bene mort, full of energy and moaning like a birthing cow. He’d only niggled with her the one time. A gift from Mackering for successfully cheating a gentleman — four crowns he’d walked away with. Mackering had laughed, slapped him on the shoulder, kissed him on the cheek, but kept all the money. When Lowe had complained, Mary was tossed his way, a toy to appease his anger. And what a toy she’d been! But when the night ended, so did affection for Lowe. Now the doxy cursed and teased him whenever they worked together.

The Devil take her, he should
.

Spitting, Lowe returned his attention to the lit window. Mary was stroking the gentleman’s cheek with her left hand and working on his clothes with her right, the nimble fingers unfastening the ties of his doublet. The gull was ogling the whore, face filled with lust. His mouth was open, his eyes sweeping over her body like a maid’s broom. He smiled stupidly and said something to the doxy. She laughed and licked his upper lip. He gave her back another fool’s grin. She winked and whispered something in his ear. The man’s eyes widened and his tongue fell out of his mouth.

A God’s blood, do all men look that idiotic when the sting hits them fierce?

The gentleman’s doublet and sleeves were off now. Mary laid them by the open window, then began to untie the points of his hose.

The coney pushed her head toward the floor, and she disappeared from sight for a moment.

She came back into view and shook her head no.

The dupe became angry and tried to push her down again.

She resisted, cocked her head to one side and said something to the dupe.

He nodded, clumsily undid his points and tugged his hose from his legs while remaining upright. For a moment his stockings were bunched around his left foot and he hopped around the room, trying to maintain his balance as he yanked them free. Finally the stockings were off and he lunged at Mary.

She sidestepped him, and Lowe saw him disappear from the window. Mary laughed wildly.

Quickly, she placed the gentleman’s stockings, hose, and shoes by the window, and baited her would-be lover to come hither.

He was standing again, his two fool fingers erect and placed behind his head as if they were the horns of Pan.

She laughed, mimed mock fright and brought her hand to her mouth.

The coney chased her around the room. Then they both disappeared from view.

Lowe saw a skirt fly up in the air, followed by her chemise. Then nothing.

Ten minutes later she stood bare-chested, her nipples hard and erect. She peered out the window and shook her head gently.

Lowe sighed and settled back down into the pile of shit.

The gentleman was still not sated.

She disappeared again.

The crier called out three in the morning.

Lowe sighed. He hoped the booty tonight would be enough to please Master George. As of late the master had been smoking in a beastly mood, and no amount of money was ever enough.

Mackering’s moodiness had started after the trip up North, Lowe thought; after he and Christopher Mudd had gulled that coney named Whitman at the Fishhead. Lowe had had an evil feeling about it from the start. Aye, an angel they cheated out of him, but the master hadn’t been pleased about their winnings. Maybe the master had expected more, who knew with him? And there’d been something strange about Whitman, something troubling. He’d accepted his loss without ever demanding to see the dice.

And then Whitman turned up dead. The master had been furious. Though Mackering enjoyed announcing his cheats to all the world, he wasn’t pleased to be associated with a dead man. He cursed his men, swore that he’d cut off the tips of their things if the authorities found out they’d been the last to see the dead man alive. And the master always kept his promises.

Lowe realized he’d been squeezing his crotch and released his grip.

Fifteen minutes had gone by.

And now that fool-player Shakespeare had been asking questions about Mackering on the bridge this afternoon. After his duel with the skinny runt with the fancy sword. Lowe also had heard Shakespeare asking about the Whitman cove. The talk bothered him more than the stink of the dung. The gossip must be reported to Master George, and tush, that would stoke his fire. Though he was not a follower of God — condemned to Hell he was — Lowe prayed that Mackering wouldn’t settle his fury on the messenger.

Finally, a half hour later, Mary stood up fully dressed. She placed several articles of clothing by the window, tucked a doublet under her arm, wrapped herself in a sheet, then hoisted herself outward. She fell into the soft underbrush, then trotted over to the muck heap.

“The shit smells ripe,” Mary said. “The perfume of a Jake-farmer suits you well, Master Lowe.”

“Shut your mouth, you stinkin’ whore.”

“Do your hookin’ and let’s be gone,” Mary said. “The jack sleeps lightly.”

“Nip his purse?” Lowe asked.

“Aye, lots of coins in it. George will be buying big at the taverns.”

“How much did you lift?”

“None of your affairs!”

“Shut your mouth!”

She lifted up her skirt.

“Look but don’t touch, Hammy. Or I’ll tell the master and he’ll cut yours off.”

“Get your tongue a-tying, you stupid stew,” Lowe said. “All you’d be ever giving me is the King’s Evil.”

“The great pox, eh?” Mary laughed, pinning up her hair. “You wouldn’t know the difference. Yours is about to fall off from rot anyway.”

“Piss off, stew.”

“G’wan,” she snickered. “Do yer anglin’ and let’s begone from the hill of shit.”

“I still dunno why you dinna throw the booty out the window and let me catch it.”

“That’d be smartass, jack.” Mary sneered. “What if me gentleman roused and caught me tossing out his clothes?”

“You coulda thought up a pretty tale.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno.” Lowe shrugged, then said, “You coulda told him you were hanging them up to dry.”

“Yer stupider than you look.” Mary laughed. “No wonder you never made it past a hooker. And speakin’ of hookin’, do some anglin’ instead of complainin’.”

“I’m waitin’ for the master to come with the horses.”

“Don’t wait too long or me coney’ll be wakin’.”

Lowe said, “I can pilfer the clothes now, but what ifin he spies us? We can’t go far without the horses.”

Mary said, “Just do it. The master’ll be comin’ afore long.”

“Then stand aside while I do my labor.”

“Piss off. I’m not in your way, jack.”

“Piss off yourself, punk.” Lowe pulled out two iron staffs and fitted them together into a crome — a pole topped with a large steel hook. Deftly he brought it to the open window and caught the doublet onto the hook. A moment later the doublet was in Lowe’s possession.

“Go fer the sleeves,” Mary said. “They’re sewn with gold thread. The fabric’ll go for two pounds a yard.”

“Aye.” Lowe fished in three pairs of sleeves.

“Here’s the master with the horses,” Mary said, waving him over. “He’s pulling one fer you, Hammy.”

Mackering rode up to the dung heap, dismounted, then fed both horses a cube of sugar. He glared at Lowe and said, “You couldn’t have found a better place than this stinkpot?”

“Was the only place where I could see Mary clearly,” Lowe said.

“You’re a dolt, Lowe,” Mackering said. “A jackass with shit where brains should be. You must feel quite at home in this muck pile.”

“Master George, I—”

“Shut up and keep on with your angling before the gentleman wakes up.” Mackering picked up a doublet and smiled at Mary. “Bene clothes he wears, my sweet little thing. You chose your sap well tonight.”

Mary smiled and curtsied.

“And how much was in his bung?”

Mary handed Mackering the gentleman’s purse. Mackering took out the coins, bit them, then slipped them into his doublet.

“Tis good,” Mackering said. His expression suddenly hardened. “You wouldn’t be filching a bit off the top, would you, Mary?”

“Oh no, Master George. Never!”

“Open your mouth, girl.”

Mary obeyed and Mackering searched it, then her anus and vagina. Finding them empty, he smiled and patted her bum. He asked,

“Did you lay out the man’s sheets, Mary?”

“He only had but one, Master George,” Mary said nervously. “I wrapped it around me body and took it myself when I jumped out the window.”

Mackering picked up the sheet, felt the cloth between his thumb and middle finger and shook his head.

“Cheap,” he sneered. “Won’t bring in more than a tuppence.”

“Aye, but look at his sleeves, Master George….”

Mary held her breath.

“Ah, these are beneship indeed,” said Mackering. “Thick velvet, full of gold-threaded embroidery.”

The whore smiled with relief. Mackering asked, “What else have you hooked, Hamor?”

“I just pulled in four sets of hose,” the angler answered. “And two pairs of shoes.”

“Did you leave him what to wear, Mary?”

She shook her head no.

Mackering laughed. “Let the jack parade in his chemise.”

“Finished,” Lowe said, taking apart the pole.

“Then pack up the goods and let’s be gone.”

“Master George?” said the hooker.

“Aye?”

“I heard your name being gossiped about on the bridge today.”

Mackering went rigid. “Go on.”

“A player was asking about you. He goes by the name—”

“William Shakespeare.”

“Aye,” said Lowe. “Twas Shakespeare.”

“And?” Mackering asked.

“He asked many a gentleman about where you supped and drank,” Lowe said, beginning to shake. “Though they heard of you, Master George — who hasn’t heard of your great reputation — no one claimed to know where you did your boozing.”

“Lo be the one to suffer my sword, eh?”

“Aye,” said Lowe. His hands felt numb, and he dropped a shoe into the pile of muck.

“Clod,” Mackering said. In a motion as swift as lightning he whipped Lowe across the face with the handle of his dagger. Mary gasped out loud as Lowe clutched his cheekbone.

“Shut up, you wailing whore,” snapped Mackering, putting the point to her throat.

Wetting her chemise, Mary clasped her hand over her mouth and trembled.

Mackering laughed and withdrew the dagger. “Tarry not, Lowe. Let’s get on with it. Mary, as soon as we’re safe, tend to Lowe’s small sore, will you?”

“Aye, Master George.”

“And Hamor, my good man, worry not about William Shakespeare,” Mackering said. “I’ll take fine care of him.”

“Aye, Master George,” Lowe said, holding the side of his face and biting back pain. “Surely you will.”

“Surely I will.” Mackering gave a lopsided smile. When Lowe had finished packing the clothes, Mackering picked up a rock and flung it into the gentleman’s open window. A minute later a face still heavy with sleep looked down upon them.

“Ho, scoundrel!” the gentleman cried. “Who tossed that rock into my chambers?”

“I did,” Mackering yelled.

“Who are you?” the gentleman hollered.

“You may tell the world that you were pilfered by the highest uprightman Mackering.” George turned to Lowe and said, “Upon your horse.”

“Mackering, you cozener!” the gentleman screamed. “Twas your doxy whom I had?”

“The very one, jack.” Mackering swung Mary onto his horse. “You’ve been had by the best, and that in itself is an honor. Spread my name to all who test me and try to best me. Let them beware, for they will be left as naked as thee. Never will they win. Chase us if you can. But you’d better be getting dressed afore you do.”

Mackering mounted his horse, yanked on the reins until the horse reared upward, then left the gentleman spilling his curses into the cold night air.

The gyrfalcon spread her wings of pure white, then soared upward until she was bleached from the sky by sunlight. Roderigo tried to track the bird visually, but the blinding rays caused his eyes to water until his vision was a blur. Every time the doctor cast the bird, he became tense, so fine a hunter she was and so rare was her color. He had told no one about her except Francis, his trusted falconer, but somehow the word had escaped. The creature was the envy of many a high-ranking noble and had to be kept in a separate mew under armed guard twenty-four hours a day. Lopez hawked with her under utmost secrecy, and took with him a large staff of trained swordsmen to fend off any wanton attackers.