The Quality of Mercy (30 page)

“The marriage is
incestuous?
”

“God forbid such an abomination! He’s a
distant
relation.”

“And?”

Rebecca touched her cheek. It was hot and moist. The drink was making her dizzy. Or perhaps she was dizzy because she’d drunk not enough. She swallowed more ale and said, “We marry amongst each other because we have family secrets.”

“Such as?”

“Our practices—” Rebecca stopped herself. She was sailing in troubled waters. “I cannot tell you.”

“You practice the art of witchcraft?” Shakespeare asked, wide-eyed.

“Shh… Nay! Not a whit of black arts have I or my kinsmen ever known… Simply put, we retain some practices… Oh, why am I confessing this to you?”

“I assure you your secrets are safe with me.”

Two plates of mutton and cabbage were placed before them. Rebecca finished her tankard of ale and signaled the tapster for a third.

“What is your secret?” Shakespeare asked.

“I cannot—”

“Aye, you can,” he whispered. “I see by your eyes that you desire to rid the recesses of your heart of its heavy load. I’ve confessed to you my demons, tell me
yours
.”

Rebecca said nothing. This time, instead of refilling her tankard, a full pitcher of ale was brought to the table. Rebecca poured, then took a full swallow.

“Tell me,” prodded Shakespeare.

“Our ancestors… We are still influenced by them. We practice some customs of the old religion.”

“I knew it!” Shakespeare said, pounding his fist on the table.

“Shh.”

“You’re Spanish—”

“Portuguese.”

“The same thing.”

“
Not
at all!”

“You’re secret Papist, aye?” Shakespeare whispered. “A Jesuit, mayhap. Did not you mention your kinsmen trade with them?”

“Yes — I mean no! I mean—”

“Not to fear, sir. Harry was also a secret Papist and it matters not to me. I still love him dearly. Do you have icons of the virgin and candles stashed away in some hidden nest?”

“You don’t understand—”

“Have you also relatives in the North?”

“Nay! None.” Rebecca gulped some ale. “My mouth stretches so wide, it’s cavernous. Erase this conversation from your memory.”

“Done,” Shakespeare said. “But if ever you want to speak of personal matters, you may speak with me as confidently as you talk to yourself.”

“I thank you.” Rebecca touched her temples with her fingertips. “My head aches.”

“You drink much on an empty stomach,” Shakespeare said. He cut up pieces of mutton and fed her one with his fingers. “You must eat. Later we shall resume our conversation.”

“Not this one.”

“As you wish, sir.” Shakespeare handed her another piece of mutton. “Eat.”

Rebecca took the meat and chewed it indifferently, washing it down with ale. She picked up a cooked leaf of cabbage, wrapped it around her finger, then placed it daintily into her mouth. She repeated the gesture and noticed Shakespeare staring at her.

“Is my beard slipping from my face?” she whispered.

“No. Simply, I’ve never seen a gallant eat his victuals in such a manner.”

She straightened up in her chair, belched, then bit a chunk of mutton off the leg bone.

“Now do I play better the knight?”

“More believable,” said Shakespeare, “though your belch was womanly.”

Rebecca smiled. The food in her stomach eased the pain in her head. She felt light once again, as if she were floating. She opened her mouth and tried to burp, but nothing came out.

“Finish your dinner,” Shakespeare said. “Then tell me your story, sir.”

Rebecca smiled again, then giggled. “My cousins were always able to emit such loud and resonant belches. Of course, they’d never do it in front of our elders, but alone in the stables… or in the hayloft.” She laughed and picked up her tankard, but Shakespeare placed his hand atop hers and lowered the vessel.

“Have some more mutton,” he said.

“My stomach feels the heat of the flesh,” Rebecca said, patting her doublet. “It desires a bath of ale.”

“Methinks it will drown if you pour any more down your gullet.”

“My innards, Shakespeare, are solely my responsibility,” she said, taking a sip of ale.

Shakespeare sighed.

“If I belch womanish,” she said with a sly smile, “how does Shakespeare belch in a manly fashion?”

“Shakespeare desires not to belch.”

“Ah, but his company desires it. And being the good man that he is, he has no option but to oblige his companion of superior title.”

Shakespeare whispered, “We are in public, sir.”

“Belches abound in places of drinking, and your fine tavern, Shakespeare, is no exception. Many a burp has punctuated the air like the stab of a quill at the end of a sentence.”

“We must exhibit knightly behavior if we are dressed as a knight, sir.”

“And how many sober gallants do you see in the room, good man?” Rebecca pouted. “Do show me how to belch.”

Shakespeare felt as if he were melting before her eyes. He was burning for her, and the beard and mustache did little to quench his fire. It was her eyes, her voice, her lips, her pout. She touched his hand and he felt himself go numb.

“I pray you, good man,” she said. “Instruct me in the finer points of belching.”

“Mis — Sir. For the sake of your honor, show restraint.”

Rebecca lowered her lashes and squeezed his hand. A flash of heat burst into his loins.

She said, “I pray you… Please?”

“Very well, if you insist.”

Rebecca clapped her hands with satisfaction. “Very good, my dear fellow. Now tell me.”

“The key to a manly belch is the ingestion of ale. It must be done all at once. That way air is trapped inside the gullet and can be easily expelled.”

“Pray, continue.”

Shakespeare raised his eyebrows, picked up his tankard, downed it in five consecutive swallows, then sat back in his chair. The burp that came out was deep and resonant.

Rebecca burst into laughter. She filled her tankard from the pitcher and said, “To your health and may God bless, good sir.” After the fifth swallow, she surfaced coughing, ale spewing from her nose and mouth.

Shakespeare slapped her on the back.

“Too fast,” he remarked.

“Aye?” she said, sputtering with laughter.

“You’ve sated the lungs.”

She cleared her throat, dried her eyes on her shirt-sleeve. “Mayhap I need another demonstration.”

“No,” Shakespeare said. “You need a walk.”

“Again, sir, I beg of you.”

Shakespeare sighed. It was useless to resist. She’d erode away his will like the tides to the cliffs. “For your pleasure, sir.”

His belch this time was louder than the first. Rebecca held her stomach and howled.

“I noticed the tempo with which you gulped,” she choked out between chortles. “As perfect as a drummer’s. And your pace… as steady as a plow horse.”

“Many thanks.” He stood up. “By your leave now, sir?”

“Nay,” Rebecca said, motioning him down. She brought the mug to her face and tilted the cup. Ale poured over her beard. She giggled, her head swimming in a gray fog.

“You’ve missed your mouth, sir,” said Shakespeare.

“Then I shall try again, good fellow.” She drank half the tankard in a series of rapid gulps, feeling afterward as bloated as an unmilked cow. She opened her mouth but nothing came out.

“You look ill, sir,” Shakespeare said.

Rebecca couldn’t answer.

“You’re awash in green hues,” he said.

“I need air,” she croaked out. Her stomach had started to buck. “Very quickly.”

Shakespeare stood. “A walk, then.”

Rebecca tried to stand, but her knees buckled. Shakespeare caught her by the arm, left some coins on the table, and managed to get her outside. Gods, how heavy she’d become.

“Do you feel the need to empty your stomach?” Shakespeare asked her.

“Death is upon me,” she groaned.

“Breathe slowly.”

“Nay, tis too late.” She gulped, tried to hold down the contents of her stomach. “The otherworld is imminent.”

“You shall live to curse your waking, sir.”

“This is the end.”

Shakespeare jerked Rebecca onto her feet. “Try to walk.”

“All my dreams, squashed as an overripe plum—”

“Walk, sir.”

She fell against him.

“Come.” He hoisted her upright. “Look up at the trees.”

“My eyes see nothing but haze as life’s precious vapors are sucked from my weary body.”

“Open your eyes as wide as you’re able. Try to fix them to a sight in front of you.”

“I see only black,” Rebecca muttered.

“Aye. I said
open
your eyes.”

“I cannot.”

Shakespeare slapped her cheeks.

“I feel nothing,” she moaned. “This is it.”

“You’re thoroughly boozed.”

“At your behest,” Rebecca said, swooning. “You ply me with drink to extract the family secrets. But you succeeded not!”

“The room that I let is not far from here. You may sleep off your stupor there.”

“While you act the lewd one.”

“Base thoughts are far from my mind.”

“And
why
is that?” Rebecca burst into newfound giggles. She tripped and crashed into Shakespeare, nearly knocking him over. He shook his head, then hoisted her over his shoulder.

“What’re you doing?” Rebecca asked. Her words had come out a slur.

“Trying to remove you from harm’s way.”

“Down with me, sir!”

“In a minute.”

“Down,” she shouted. “I demand to be released to my own powers!”

“As you wish.”

He placed Rebecca on her feet and she immediately crumpled on the ground, contorting with laughter as if she were inflicted with falling sickness.

“As a man, you’re pathetic,” Shakespeare said. “But as a woman, you’re simply pitiable. Come. Let me help you… sir.”

Rebecca rolled onto her back and raised her arms. He yanked her to her feet and she threw her arms around his neck. Together they meandered their way to his closet, weaving in and out of the throngs, not a single person taking notice of another drunken knight.

Once inside his room she stumbled to the floor, pulling him down on top of her.

“Kiss me,” she said.

“You’re drunk.”

“Yes. But do it anyway.”

He pulled the beard and mustache from her face and gently kissed her cheek.

“You,” she said, “
are
an honest man!” She burst into guffaws. “A saint.”

“You overstate my worth.”

“Then love me, you worthless jack.”

“Sleep.”

“You find me not to your liking?”

He closed her eyelids, kissed her forehead and said, “Ask of me anything, m’lady, and I shall serve you slavishly. But you must make your requests when you’re of sound mind. Then we’ll both know tis you and not the ale that does speak.”

“I love thee,” she said to him.

“Sleep,” Shakespeare said. “Dream sweetly.”

Rebecca smiled and drifted off.

When she was in deep slumber, Shakespeare lay beside her, watching her sleep, her mouth as rich and red as poinsettia, her chest moving rhythmically with each breath. Like a tune affixed in the brain, Rebecca’s laughter rang through Shakespeare’s head. The feel of her hand, the smell of her intoxicated breath. Feeling raged inside of him, an intensity of passion as explosive as the first time he’d ever loved a woman. One side of him screamed to possess her; she was willing, he was drowning in desire. His other side begged restraint.

An hour later restraint was victorious. He rose from his pallet and sat at his desk, quill in hand, attempting to pen another verse of the poem he’d promised Lord Southampton; the nobleman was his benefactor. In the past he’d been more than generous with monetary support.

But Shakespeare was distracted by Rebecca’s breathing. Like a siren’s song, it beckoned him closer.

Restraint.

Harry had used that word to describe him, a depiction that had puzzled Shakespeare then, confused him even more in memory.

I love you, Shakespeare,
he had cried out one night as they walked home from a tavern. Harry had been weeping buckets.
You’re the man I had always wanted to be. But I failed. My father failed me. My God failed me
.

Sweating, Shakespeare had pulled him onto his feet.
Come, Harry. Walk. Your closet is only five doors away.

The man I wanted to be,
Harry had reiterated.
A man of modesty, a man of restraint, a man of integrity, a man of honesty!

Shakespeare the fool.

Ever the honest man.

He picked up his quill and dipped it in the inkpot.

Sunlight was turning to twilight. Shakespeare squinted, the words in front of him a blur. His closet had become stifling, and he threw open the window, filling his lungs with the scented air of spring’s dusk. The city below played its music, a swell of sound ringing between his ears where silence had resided only a moment ago. He capped his inkwell and cleaned his quills, then, savoring the moment, allowed his eyes to focus on his pallet.

Sleep was still heavy upon the girl. Shakespeare wanted to touch her, stroke her, hold her, but he restrained himself lest he’d startle her. She must be wakened soon, he thought. The supper hour grew near and her absence was bound to be noticed. But he wanted to keep her in his possession for yet another day, another hour, at the least another minute. She lay so tranquil, so beautiful… Let her sleep a while longer.

He’d take a brief walk. Shake some life into his legs and relieve his mind of the windstorm of swirling images; his head always ached after an afternoon of writing. By the time he returned, she’d be awake, maybe even gone….

He closed the door softly.

The streets were still congested with traffic, people scurrying about in a frantic attempt to complete unfinished business before dark. Mongers were pulling in the wares that hung from their upstairs windows, merchants were closing their booths, fruit peddlers shouted loudly, trying to rid their baskets of overripe edibles that would spoil come the morning. A mile into his walk Shakespeare stopped in front of the stall of a costermonger.