The Quality of Mercy (26 page)

Roderigo slapped her across the face. “You must learn to modulate the pitch of your voice, daughter. A shrew makes not a gentle wife.”

Rebecca held her cheek and said nothing.

“I’m waiting,” said Roderigo patiently.

“Apologies, Father.”

“Accepted. Girl, if you had been
listening
to me for the past two months, if you’d been thinking of
me
instead of yourself, you’d have known that your betrothal — or lack thereof — had been a constant wound for me. If you care not to abet me, I shall dress the sore in
my
own way. Furthermore, daughter, I do not
molest
you with my talk. You molest
me
with your insolence.”

Rebecca started to speak, then nodded instead.

“Give me an answer,” Roderigo demanded.

Rebecca sighed. Court would allow her little freedom as long as the Queen desired her attention. Miguel, though far from perfect, would not question her comings and goings. And at least she was fond of him, finding him goodly company and an amusing storyteller. Their union would also get Dunstan off her back.

She could resist, plead, beg with tears to remain free. But the matter would just come up another time. She had no other alternatives, no position outside being a daughter or a wife. She was weary of fighting the inevitable.

“If it pleases you,” she said, “I shall tell Mother to start the arrangement for my nuptials to Miguel.” Thinking: the planning and trousseau would allow at least six months of freedom.

Roderigo smiled and kissed her cheek, then hugged her once again.

“Birth for me a healthy grandson,” he said.

Rebecca smiled, her eyes gazing at the endless acres of wild land. One day the forests would be gone, plowed under for fields, thousands of years of nature done in by mankind’s incessant need to tame. She felt her father’s hand on her shoulder, felt his strong fingers massaging her flesh. She couldn’t be angry with him. He was only doing what he thought was in her best interest. Still, a pity that the domesticated hawk never contemplated flying to freedom, a pity she was so trained as well.

The blade plunged into the ground. Rebecca gasped, dropped her book and brought her hand to her chest. Paralyzed, she watched the handle of the embedded sword quiver from the force of the stab, then slowly allowed her eyes to move sideways. At her left was a pair of legs housed in brown stockings. The thighs were thick and strong, ringed with yellow garters — rather ragged ones — resting slightly above the knees.

Her eyes climbed farther.

The round hose were paned in brown and yellow and badly frayed. Rebecca looked past the doublet and old-fashioned small ruff and examined the face.

Shakespeare.

It was the first time she’d seen him up close, and though he appeared close to middle age — in his late twenties — there was something boyish about him. His complexion was smooth and fair with a spot of blush on each cheek. He was round-faced with a straight sloping nose, curled red lips, and small ears, the left lobe adorned with a gold hoop. His hair was becoming sparse, but what tresses remained were colored as the leaves of autumn. But it was his eyes — ah, those eyes! — that muted her speech: full moons of bright blue that smiled as they stared back at her.

“Methinks you’ve misplaced that which trembles before you, gentlewoman,” he said.

“Aye, my goodman,” said Rebecca. “In the wrong shoulder.”

Shakespeare laughed. “And for whose shoulder was it intended?”

“I know not, except twas not meant for you.” Rebecca moved to the side of the bench and bade him to sit.

Shakespeare’s eyes scanned over the grounds: ten acres of magnificent gardens bleeding into miles of pasture and uncultivated scrub. He wondered how much of the wild land was owned by her family, then directed his eyes back to the tended grounds. The gardens were by no means the biggest he’d ever seen, but they were among the most beautiful and unusual. To his right were orchards wealthy in foliage and fruit — clouds of emerald green dotted with shimmering sunlit jewels of fiery reds, deep plums, and golden apricots. Splitting the files of trees were rose-lined walkways, the stone pavers inset with hand-hewn diamonds of black marble that interlocked into sunburst patterns. To his left were formal gardens constructed around a reflection pool in the Venetian style — a long rectangular body of sparkling sapphire dappled with white water lilies. The hedges were a waist-high maze of yew, meticulously trimmed and crenellated, interspersed with columns of Italian cyprus and marble statuary.

They sat on a marble bench under a domed pergola fashioned from whitewashed planks of intricate oak latticework and shaded by the giant arms of a maple. Bordering the floor and hanging from the rafters were baskets of lilies, violets, and daffodils mixing their perfume with spring’s sweet vapors. Fronting the gazebo were a pair of heart-shaped gardens rimmed with gillyflowers, hyssops, lavender, and cowslips — the knot gardens. Usually they were walled, but these were so splendid they remained open for all visitors to see. One plot hosted serpentine vines of melons, peppers, and cucumbers, the other was sown with neatly labeled rows of medicinal and cooking herbs.

But what amazed Shakespeare most were the plantings in between the hearts: a grove of miniature trees potted in shallow, brass trays filled with dirt, moss, and rock, the tallest of the arbors with a span of not more than two feet. Their tiny boughs sported the smallest leaves he’d ever laid eyes upon. Some of the branches sagged with pearl-sized fruit, others defied the forces of nature and drooped with full-sized cherries and apples. Shakespeare couldn’t stop staring.

“Fascinating, eh?” Rebecca said. “They’re stunted trees grown in Cipango, gifts to my parents from one of my relatives — a spice dealer who used to trade extensively with the Portuguese Jesuits on that continent.”

“Are they living flora?”

“Aye. In autumn the leaves fall. In springtime they bloom and fruit. They are quite strong despite their reduced size, kept small by constant clipping and wires. My grandam cares for them exclusively and they thrive beautifully under her touch. The pines and maples are over fifty years old, the cherry and apple trees are much younger.”

“The branches hold such heavy fruit — it’s contrary to the laws of God.”

“It is,” Rebecca said.

“But,” Shakespeare added with a twinkle in his eye, “the heathens of the East know not of the divine order.”

“Then the English will have to educate them,” Rebecca said, smiling.

“A pity if we do,” said Shakespeare. “Once the heathens are learned, their trees will realize they’re in error of nature and drop their oversized fruit.”

“Then mayhap it’s best to let the East remain in its spiritual ignorance.”

“Aye, for the sake of the trees.”

Rebecca nodded, lowered her eyes and said, “I thank you for returning the weapon, sir.”

“I’m no knight.”

“In title, this is true. But one who spares a life, risking his honor
and
the displeasure of his audience, is more than a knight to me.”

“Then your conceited knight shall dub you his lady.”

Rebecca blushed, cocked her head to her shoulder. Shakespeare glanced at her, smiled quickly, then returned his eyes to the midget trees. Two weeks ago he’d been locked in combat with this woman. What an ass he’d been. Instead of fighting with her, he should have been bedding her. An exquisite creature — one that defied description. Everything about her was delectable. Had Venus been fashioned after her, Adonis would have been groveling at her feet.

Rebecca ran her fingertips across the handle of the rapier. “The weapon’s owner shall be very pleased to see it again. He has been most spleenish since it was discovered missing. You see, the sword wasn’t mine to sport with in the first place.”

“It belongs to your first cousin. Sir Thomas Ames, a well-sized man of nineteen with a complexion the color of a peach and textured equally as such… the younger son of your uncle, Sir George Ames.”

Rebecca stared at him. At last she said, “Aye.”

“Sir Thomas’s reputation in the art of the fence precedes him greatly. Whenever I spoke of him, eyes would widen, and ere long I’d be pelted with diverse tales of his swordsmanship.”

“How did you come to know the sword as his?”

“The handle is distinctively engraved with his initials and the Ames coat-of-arms.”

“And you recognized the weapon from the heraldry?”

Shakespeare smiled. “I didn’t recognize the coat-of-arms. However, there is an ever-so-slight-solder line fusing the two halves of the cross guard — a repair, one done with much precision. I took it to the best bladesmith in all of London, Master John Cutlass, and he identified it immediately as his work and the sword as your cousin’s. I have in my belt his dagger as well.”

Shakespeare pulled the smaller weapon from its sheath and lay it on the palm of his hand. “Perfect balance.”

“It’s imported,” said Rebecca. “From the city of Innsbruck in Austria.”

“I knew as much.” He offered her the handle. “How does your arm fare?”

“A scratch, sir. And how is your shoulder?”

“It mends very well, thank you.”

“Does it impede your duties on the stage?”

“I have no duties on stage. The Master of the Revels ordered the theaters bolted shut a week ago.”

Rebecca stared at him. She said,

“I’ve not ventured from my house since our duel two weeks ago… save to go abirding. The plague is back, then?”

“Aye. June has just arrived, with it the warmer weather. The trench diggers work all day, and still not enough pits have been dug. The bodies lay exposed, decomposing faster in the mild air — an assault upon the nose as well as the eyes. Only the maggots benefit.”

Rebecca should have known something was amiss. Lately her father had spent little time at home, rising well before dawn and not returning until late at night. The wards of Bartholomew’s must be overflowing with the ill, she thought. Nothing could be done for them, may God have pity on their souls. She felt her stomach sink. May God protect her father from their noxious air.

“You’re troubled,” Shakespeare stated.

Rebecca stated, “My father is a physician. I worry about his health.”

“Does your father have a country home?”

“He does.”

“Cannot your family take up the summer months there?”

“My father will never abandon the sick who depend on him for succor.”

“What about you?”

She shook her head. Shakespeare asked why.

Rebecca said, “My father often has need of my services. I prepare his medicines, run the stillroom.”

“Surely a servant can—”

“Where will
you
go?” Rebecca asked, changing the subject. Then she covered her mouth. “I mean not to pry.”

“I take no offense,” said Shakespeare. “I have several options. My wife’s family has a gentle English home in Wilmcote, in my native shire of Warwick. If necessary I can return there, though I, too, prefer to remain in London even in these troubled times. I have business here that requires my attention.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Your
wife
?” Rebecca asked.

Shakespeare felt his cheeks go hot and cursed himself. With one slip of the tongue she now knew he was married. Any plans he had for seduction were ruined. As if such a fair woman would have ever considered him worthy of her attention. Still, it had been a beautiful fantasy, had turned his innards warm. Now it had dissolved like sugar in boiling water. He smiled weakly and said, “Yes, m’lady, I have a wife.”

Rebecca said nothing.

Shakespeare shrugged. As long as his marriage was known, he might as well tell her everything. “I have three children as well.”

Rebecca hesitated, then asked, “Do they reside in London?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Do you miss your wife greatly?”

“At times.”

“And is this one of those times?”

Shakespeare’s response was laughter. Rebecca felt herself go hot. She said,

“I’ve overstepped the boundaries of decency, sir. Please forgive—”

“No forgiveness is necessary.”

“You are too kind,” Rebecca said, smoothing her skirt.

Shakespeare glanced at the fallen book and picked it up. He asked, “In what tongue is this written?”

“Arabic. It’s a book of verse.”

“What other languages do you read?”

“Latin, Greek, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, French… German after a fashion, though I cannot read it with fluency.” Rebecca gave him a shy smile.

“You impress me, mistress,” Shakespeare said. “Where were you schooled?”

“In a hayloft.”

“Pardon?”

“I was taught by my kinsmen.”

“And a liquid-tongued group they must be.”

“We have many relatives all over the Continent. My uncle is a duke in North Africa.”

“Than I shall call you lady in earnest.”

“No. We’re not nobility on the Isle.”

“Yet it is said that your father sees Her Majesty more often than most of the peers.”

“The ‘Spanish’ upstart!” Rebecca mocked.

Shakespeare said, “I didn’t mean offense.”

“None taken.” Rebecca laughed. “I have ears as well. Let the gossip mongers nurse their wounds of jealousy. My father has studied arduously for the honor of being Her Majesty’s physician. Their viciousness doesn’t affect him or me.”

She turned and faced him. His eyes were playful, flirtatious. All he needed was a pittance of encouragement and he’d be on his knees, kissing her hand. Not that she minded the thought. He was attractive in the way older men sometimes are — as men of experience. But at the moment she was more interested in answers. She asked,

“Shakespeare, why did you stare at me so unrelentingly as I stood in the pit?”

“My error.”

“What was it about me that captivated you?”

“Forgive me for what I say. I don’t mean to malign the purity of your soul, but I thought you were a witch.”

“I?”

“Aye,” echoed Shakespeare.

She laughed. “And why did you think me a mistress of black magic?”