The Quality of Mercy (36 page)

Now the Fates had given him his most challenging role: that of a thief who’d swindle from the villainous Mackering. If Shakespeare’s scheme worked as planned, Mackering would have to feel his purse lighter of weight and could no longer ignore Shakespeare’s presence.

Shakespeare walked steadily, unable to go for more than a mile without Rebecca entering his thoughts. He imagined her slender hands holding his face, her arms engulfing his waist. Why did she bid him good-bye so coldly? Why? Why? If only she had been as upset as he, then perhaps the open wound in his heart would scab and scar. No, the center of his love would never be virginal again, but at least the ever-present aching that rubbed him sore would heal.

Varium et mutabile semper femina
— a woman is an inconstant creature.

For three glorious weeks they had dallied — ah, sweet hours of night they had been, Becca shivering in her nightdress, his cloak draped over her willowy shoulders, her face beautifully framed by creeping mist and wisps of raven hair. How they had kissed, embraced, pledged troths of undying love.

Then that disastrous night. The full moon was deadly, spewing forth outrageous fury. Rebecca’s father, driven mad with rage, stormed into the gardens and found them embracing. The doctor was consumed with ire, screaming at her, at him, not giving either of them a chance to explain that nothing unholy had ever passed between them. Finished, Lopez then stalked into the house, Rebecca holding tightly to the hem of his doublet, being pulled along. She had begged her father to listen, but to no avail. Shakespeare had no choice but to follow her indoors.

Inside, her father had renewed his attacks.

This is how you do homage to your father! You liar! You whore! Manuel de Andrada was right about you! Oh, my foul hap! My star-crossed luck! How deep goes the knife that cuts my heart! How it stabs sharply into the man cursed with a willful daughter!

Father, let me explain.

It was at that moment when the doctor had slapped her. Shakespeare stood, holding his tongue and shaking fists, trying to defend Rebecca when the doctor redirected his ire against him, screaming him a drunkard, a knave, a seducer of men’s wives, and swearing by God to see him in the stocks. Shakespeare exploded and told the doctor what he thought of him, of the nuptials he had arranged for his daughter, calling him — Gods, had he really uttered such vile words? — a whoremonger who’d thought nothing of selling his own daughter to a buggerer. Rebecca’s cousins, witnessing the scene from afar, gasped in horror as Shakespeare spoke. Rebecca’s mother, who had been dressed for bed, rushed down the stairs as the shouting increased in volume. She clutched her heart and declared herself ill. Her brother in a moment of hot bluster intervened on his father’s behalf and challenged him to a duel.

Shakespeare accepted and drew his sword.

The doctor blanched.

Ben made a few preliminary attacks. It was then obvious to Shakespeare that the brother wasn’t the swordsman his sister was.

Rebecca threw herself at Shakespeare’s feet and begged him to stop.

He complied.

Benjamin cursed his sister, kicked her out of the way, and lunged at Shakespeare.

Rebecca pleaded with her cousins to intercede for her sake, for
Ben’s
sake. The older, dark-complexioned one called Dunstan approached his cousin but was repelled instantly by the tip of Ben’s sword at his throat. The doltish brother began shouting curses at both his cousins, calling them cowards and worse, rebuking them for not supporting their uncle’s honor.

Suddenly appeared another man in the room — Rebecca’s uncle, Shakespeare had learned later — who demanded the duel halt immediately. But Benjamin appeared not to have heard. He lunged at Shakespeare once again. Shakespeare parried the attack and slashed the tip of his sword across Ben’s doublet, cutting layers of clothing, but blessed be God, no skin.

The doctor, his color even whiter, shouted for the violence to end. Shakespeare lowered his rapier, but Benjamin charged. Rebecca screamed, stuck out her foot and tripped her brother. Ben stumbled across the room and bashed his head against the wall. Blood dripped from a wide gash across his forehead, crimson rivulets flowing over his eyes, nose, and lips.

Rebecca’s mother fainted. Becca rushed to her side and pleaded for everyone to hold their peace.

Ben stood up and wiped the blood from his face. Shakespeare thought at last the fighting was over. But Ben’s mind had gone daft. He rushed Shakespeare, rapier thrust outward. Her other cousin — the swordsman, Sir Thomas — interceded and blocked Ben’s lunge. With a single blow Thomas knocked the sword out of Ben’s hand. Ben frothed with anger. He charged bare-handed at his cousin and finally had to be restrained by his father and uncle. Only then, thanks be to the Merciful One, was the duel called off.

Mercury and Mars — a mortal duo. How brightly they shone that night. With the full moon shining, the planets held the earth spellbound in cursed configuration.

But the planets changed — and so had his luck, he thought. She had showed up at his closet several times, pledging eternal love for him. Despite the wretched evening, she’d come back to him. But her words proved false. The final time was so different. Agonizingly different. She was cool — cold — frosty with composure. Her cousin was waiting for her outside, she said. Then the simple good-bye.

Never see me again
.

Marry, how he had tried to change her mind, pleaded with her, cried to her face. She remained unmoved. He sneaked over the wall that very night and tapped at her window, repeated the effort for a week. Never had she given him a response. His only good fortune had been avoiding the estate guards.

How stupidly naive he was! And to think he’d yearned for a passionate, unpredictable woman. Rebecca had sworn her love for him constant and never ending. Aye — as constant as snow in summer, as never ending as youth. She was as mercurial in love as she was in life.

Gods, he was a dolt. A valuable lesson he had learned — the price paid by impetuousness. With Mackering the stakes were higher, and moving rashly might well land him a severed heart instead of merely a broken one. He would have to act with his brain and not with emotions. He would become a Stoic.

Smithfield was open land steeped in a history of ashes and blood. North of Newgate, the undeveloped acreage sat outside London wall, bordered by newly built tenement housing on the west and the massive St. Bartholomew’s Church and Hospital to the east, the landmarks having been erected during the reign of King Henry the First. Smithfield had once been jousting ground — a stage upon which many a mail-armored knight had battled to his death. The site — the Tyburn of its day — had also lived through centuries of executions. Thousands of thieves, murderers, and traitors had been hung, quartered, burned, or beheaded at Smithfield, their humors and remains forever mixed with soil from which sprouted a carpet of velvety, rippling grass. The land still played host to an occasional burning of a witch, but was mostly used for benign purposes like fairgrounds for St. Bartholomew’s Day. Today the land had been turned into an open market for buying and selling livestock.

The bright sun illuminated the crowds milling about, people shouting at each other, at the animals, scanning placid horses that occasionally kicked up clouds of dust and hay. Cows mewed and swished their tails lazily, turned circles in their cramped pens. Dung mongers reached between the bars of the stalls, scooped out excrement and slopped it into wooden wheelbarrows.

Shakespeare knew there were but a few priggers among the many honest, and they blended inconspicuously. But with his keen eyes and sharp ears, he felt he could glean them from the masses. He walked among the people, listening, looking, always alert.

An hour later he thought he found a cheat — an unctuous man with a well-formed face and a deep laugh. Shakespeare observed him for another quarter hour, noticing that his eyes never rested on any one spot. The rogue was jumpy, with shaky hands. He hesitated when he walked, taking but a few steps at any one time, paused, pivoted around, then glanced over his shoulder. Shakespeare watched him straighten his back, smooth his doublet, turn around, and follow a gentleman. The cheat sneaked up behind him and covered his eyes with his hands.

The gentleman stood still, appearing to play the cheat’s game of guess who.

After a moment or two the gentleman turned around and looked puzzled.

The cheat reddened and appeared to offer bountiful apologies for his error.

Shakespeare elbowed his way through a pile of merchants and eased over to them, managing to catch snatches of speech. “…Me thought you were my cousin, sir… remarkable resemblance, sir… twin.”

The gentleman responded that no harm was done.

They walked away from Shakespeare, still engaged in conversation. Shakespeare followed, trying to overhear their words. They stopped walking but continued talking.

The gentleman’s name was Thomas Grey, and he and the cheat seemed to be conversing about horses. The jiggler spoke to Grey in deferential tones, mentioning “…a gray-dabble for sale… overpriced… older than the owner admitted… lower cost…”

The gentleman’s smile grew with each passing word the jiggler spoke.

Shakespeare edged even closer, his back to Grey’s.

“Meet me in the south corner, Master Grey,” the jiggler said. “Near the enclosure holding ten spotted sheep. I’ll show you a value of a horse. The animal’s worth more than anything penned here.”

A half hour passed, then the jiggler reemerged on horseback at the designated spot. The animal he rode was a beauty — a coal-black mare with a startling white blaze — and no doubt diseased.

“She’s magnificent,” the gentleman said.

“Aye,” said the cheat, dismounting.

“Simply magnificent,” repeated Master Grey. “The noble carriage of a horse of much breeding. Proud and pretty. Why do you offer it to me for so little money, my good man?”

“Alas, goodmaster,” said the jiggler. “I dare not burden you with my problems, but once I was a man of much means. Not gentry like you, Master Grey, of course — dare I be so impudent as to imply such a thing! But I was a well-heeled merchant, Master Grey, not this pathetic man which stands before you. I had much in the way of coinage, which I had invested overseas. But the Fates, the winds, and the sea were unkind to me. I was left with piles of bond notes, forced to sell everything to my creditors. Only Midnight…” He patted the mare gently. “She is the last reminder of my former days.”

“Then why do you sell her, good man?”

“My creditors leave me no choice. And no peace shall I have until all my debts are paid. Alas, I am an honest man.”

“But why do you ask so little for her?” asked Grey. “Anyone would be willing to pay you double the price you ask of me.”

“My gentle master,” the jiggler said, “more important to me than money is the purchaser of Midnight. That’s why I offer her to you at a mockery of a price. I see by your eyes that you are good and just and will be a gentle and patient man with my prize steed. I’d rather you own her and receive less compensation than to sell her to a tyrant for more coins. Take her for a ride, Master Grey. See how easily she obeys the slightest pull of the reins.”

Master Grey mounted the horse. Twenty minutes later the transaction was completed, the jiggler watching his coney ride off and snickering as he stuffed the coins in his doublet. Shakespeare sneaked up behind him.

“What news have you, good man?” Shakespeare asked him.

Startled, the jiggler whirled around. “Naught,” he said quickly. “No news at all.”

Suddenly Shakespeare grabbed the jiggler’s arm and twisted it behind his back. “I challenge you to call for help, thief,” he whispered.

The jiggler gasped.

“Do we understand one another?” Shakespeare asked.

The thief nodded.

“Well it is, then.” Shakespeare maintained his grip.

“What is it you want?” asked the jiggler.

“Your name.”

“George—”

“Bah,” interrupted Shakespeare. “The name that the society calls you.”

“Good man, I understand not—”

Shakespeare increased the pressure on the man’s arm. “The magnificent horse you’d just sold was infected with glanders. Nay, not a sign of the vile illness did she show. Her head was held high and mighty only because you blew sneezing powder up her nostrils, washing her mouth out with garlic, mustard, and ale…. Whew, all but an idiot like your coney could smell the wind of the animal’s breath a mile away.”

“You err, good man,” insisted the jiggler.

“
Do
I? Together we shall ride back to your purchaser and play a simple game. I shall grab the nag by the throat until she coughs. Know what will pass, thief? The mare’s jaw will shake — a certain sign of the foul disease. Tush, man, how your gull will raise a hue and a cry.”

The jiggler said nothing.

“What is your society name?” Shakespeare repeated.

The cheat paused, then said, “Picker.”

“Ah, my good man, Picker, how good it is to make your acquaintance. And who do you work for?”

“Myself.”

“And?”

“Just myself.”

Shakespeare pulled out his dagger and placed the point against the cheat’s ribs. “Who is your uprightman?”

Picker said nothing.

Shakespeare nudged the dagger a little deeper. A small red circle leaked around the dagger point. The cheat bit his lip.

“Pardons, Picker, I heard not your answer. Who is your uprightman?”

Picker remained silent.

Shakespeare pushed the jiggler’s arm up his back.

“Aaaaaaaah.” Picker’s eyes rolled back and he moaned. “Mackering.”

“And you give your money to him?”

“Aye,” he whispered. “My arm…”

Shakespeare lowered the arm. “And you keep none of it?”

“It all goes to Mackering.”

“The horse was his?”

“Aye. He buys the sick and the lame out of town. We doctor them and sell them at Smithfield.”

“Who is
we
?”

“Me and Teeth.”

“And Teeth is here now?”