The Quality of Mercy (39 page)

“If your master doesn’t kill me, the constable will arrest me. Is that the scheme?”

“The constable’s not a bother. He boozes at my master’s tavern. We give him lots of toys and a pisspot full of ale. It keeps his mouth from canting amok. He won’t be bothering you.”

“Is that all Mackering has to say to me?”

“Aye.”

“Then get you gone,” Shakespeare said. “Tell your master I’ll see him hence. And Pigsfeet…”

“Aye.”

“Tell Mackering you’ve seen his money, his mint. Tell him you’ve seen piles and piles of coins sparkling in all their golden glory. Tell him also that I intend to stow his bits in a place most blind. If he wants his due payments, no harm’s to come to me. Understand?”

“Aye, sir,” the boy answered, nodding his head. “I understand.”

Shakespeare carried a dagger, though he knew it did him no good. He was a kite against a peregrine; the only thing that spoke in his behalf was hidden gold. The north side of the city was dusted coal black and vented with pinholes of starry light. Thus far he’d avoided the night watchman, two or three constables as well. He’d wrapped his boots in rags to muffle the sound of his steps.

Shakespeare had always enjoyed this part of the city. The old monastic houses and cottages were set into gardens of fruit trees and flower beds — a rural oasis in a town of tenements. But tonight the buildings looked foreboding. He passed Moorgate silently, walking around the great wall built to protect the city from foreign invaders. The stone edifice had done little to save London from the Visigoths within.

A flurry of movement up in the distance? No, only the whirls of summer’s wind. It was a gentle evening, perfect for a lover’s stroll. He imagined himself with Rebecca, her body resting under his arm like a hatchling nestled under its mother’s wing. He wished her well wherever she was, prayed to the Almighty to guard her from plague and strife, his wife and children as well.

While he had the Great One’s attention, he added a word or two for his own keep. Alone he was, a small cog waiting for the impending tempest. He was being watched, stalked, decoyed for death.

He continued toward Aldermanbury Street, past the Old Church of the Papy, the Church of All Hallows. Receding in the breeze was a drunken shout, the flicker of a muck-heap bonfire, the sound of hoofbeats.

Then nothing.

A few steps more before he was forced to stop.

They were upon him like locusts descending from the skies. One grabbed his arm, another took his dagger, still another slipped off his boots — all at the same time. Without shoes he wasn’t going anywhere. It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust, and when they did, he counted about ten of them. They were garbed in tatters and covered with sores. A few were missing limbs, some lacked ears — state punishment given to those convicted of thievery. Tall ones, some bent. One was a dwarf; his neck bulged hideously. The knave who stood directly in front of him was a woman.

She was too bony in the shoulders, but her loose bodice revealed an ample bosom. Her hair was loose, falling midway down her back. Her facial features would have been bonny had her eyes been softer. She smiled at him closemouthed. Nay, it wasn’t a smile, but an evil smirk.

“What news, Mary Biddle?” Shakespeare said. “Though I knew you well, I knew you not with your clothes on.”

She spat in his face.

“Such distemperament!” Shakespeare said.

She punched him in the groin.

He gasped out, “Hell has no fury—”

She kicked him in the shins. Tears stung his eyes.

“Done with him, Mary?” asked the man who held Shakespeare’s arms. The man’s own left arm was amputated to the elbow, his forearm and hand replaced by an iron rod and hook. The other man who held Shakespeare was tall and fat. He wore a patch over his eye. His vision was goodly, thought Shakespeare. No doubt the patch was part of the livery of a sturdy beggar — a “reacher,” as they called themselves.

“Nay, Hook,” Mary answered the amputee. “Not done with him yet.” She began to slip metal rings over her knuckles.

Shakespeare saw the look in her eye — the gleam of the moonstruck. He knew she meant to break him. But he’d rather be damned than show fear before a whore. He said, “The doxy remembers a man not easily sated, eh? Yet you moaned quite pleasantly during the rutting.”

“I woulda said nothing ifin you only fucked me for free,” Mary said. “But you stole my purse, you scum! Caused me evil with the master.”

“That was justice speaking, wench,” Shakespeare answered. “You filched
my
purse when you thought I was sleeping. In sooth, I took back what was mine… and a few bits more from yours for the inconvenience suffered at your hands.”

“Know what Master Mackering
did
to me because of you?” she screamed.

“I warrant it wasn’t pleasant.”

She gave him a full smile this time. Both front teeth were missing now.

“Regard it with humor,” said Shakespeare. “Never shall those teeth inflict thee with pain.”

She grinned menacingly. Shakespeare’s instinct was to try and jerk free, but he forced himself to remain still. He winced slightly as she pulled back her fist, now shining with silver. She smacked him in the mouth. His head vibrated with pain, his eyes rolled backward. His vision burst into thousands of droplets of light. A warm, wet stream gushed from his nose and mouth. The night blackened into nothingness.

“Speak pretty words now, you malapert patch,” Mary said, blowing on her stinging hand.

“He’s out,” said Hook.

But Shakespeare wasn’t. He could hear them speak even as his head throbbed.

The voice of the patch-eyed man said, “The master’ll not be in good humor over this. He wanted no marks on the cove’s body.”

Mary said, “Stow it, Patch. I’ll say that Shakespeare was asking for the bobbing. And none of ye will say nothing against me, eh?”

They all agreed.

“Looks like you killed him,” said Hook.

“Bah,” Mary answered. “He breathes. Bring the cove some booze and pour it in his mouth. Ifin that doesn’t do the trick, nothing’s able.”

Shakespeare smelled something medicinal and pungent. A moment later he felt his mouth being pried open, something vile being poured down his gullet. He sputtered and coughed.

“Hit his back, Little Dickie,” Mary ordered the dwarf. She added with a chuckle, “Ifin you can reach it.”

Little Dickie jumped up and pounded him between the shoulder blades. Shakespeare moaned.

“Open your eyes, lout,” said Mary. “Yer still among the living.”

Shakespeare felt his knees buckling under his weight.

“Hold him up,” Mary barked. She held up her fist, still decked with metal rings, and slowly extended it toward Shakespeare’s bloody mouth. He jerked back, wrestling in the iron grip of the knaves.

“Where’d you hide the master’s bits?” she asked.

Shakespeare said nothing.

Mary withdrew her hand.

“Where’s the money, Willy boy?”

Again Shakespeare remained silent. Mary clucked her tongue.

“We’re not learning you proper, I can see that.” She shrugged, pulled back her studded hand and fisted Shakespeare hard in the stomach.

This time his brain went black.

“Yer gonna kill him, Mary,” said Hook.

“The master’ll not be pleased,” warned Little Dickie.

Mary splashed the spirits in Shakespeare’s face. “Arise, jack.”

Shakespeare opened his eyes. His face felt puffy, his nose seared with pain.

“Anything to say, dolt?” Mary asked.

Shakespeare smiled groggily — a lopsided smile. He slurred out: “The stew thinks herself Huffing Kate.”

Mary spat at him.

“Hit… me again,” gasped Shakespeare, “and… no… money shall Mackering see.”

“I hear the steps of a watchman,” Patch said.

“It’s nothing,” Mary said, brushing him off.

“No,” Little Dickie said. “He comes. Get us to the master’s hideaway afore we’re hung on the gallows at Tyburn.”

“Mary,” said Hook. “His feet are draggin’.”

“Then pick him up and stow him over your shoulder.”

“He’s heavy,” complained Hook.

“Awwww,” Mary crooned. She slapped the amputee across the face with her bare hand and held up her fist, still encased in rings. “Another frown, Hook, and my metal hand is in your mouth.”

Shakespeare emitted a hazy laugh. “Heed her words, my bene cove.”

“Stow you,” Mary mumbled. “To the master’s hideaway.”

“Where’s… Mackering?” Shakespeare managed to say.

“You’ll find him soon enough,” Mary said with a smile — an open-mouthed one.

Shakespeare smiled back, then passed out.

Shakespeare awoke submerged in pain, his eyes crusted over and swollen shut. He cried out a muffled bleat and a moment later felt his mouth being opened, a sticky syrup being poured down his throat. He coughed weakly, moaned, then drifted back into fitful sleep.

Some time later he was roused from his sleep by fingers playing upon his face. Voices echoed inside his head, the syllables of each word ringing over and over, as if orated by someone with a stammer.

He fell back asleep.

The third time he was able to open his eyes. He was in the corner of a barn, his head resting on a pile of straw. Milling about were eerie outlines — human beings sculpted from unhardened wax, their eyes dripping into their noses, their noses running and melding with their mouths and chins. Distorted, disassembled.

He closed his eyes and felt the contents of his stomach coming out of his mouth.

Dear God,
he thought.
She did me in. Killed me. I’ve gone to Hell
.

He heard Mary’s voice swearing at him.

She’s gone to Hell with me
.

His eternity. To be tortured by the bawd forever.

“The Devil take thee,” she cursed at Shakespeare. “Patch, help me lift him up. Little Dickie, move your arse and clean up the straw. He heaved all over it.”

“A minute,” the dwarf shouted back.

“Come
now
!” Mary screamed.
“Giant!”

“He hasn’t returned yet, Mary,” said Patch.

Mary spewed out a string of obscenities then shouted, “Little Dickie! Now!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Little Dickie said. He muttered under his breath, “The Devil take her.”

Shakespeare groaned.

“More poppy syrup, Angel!” Mary yelled. “Shakespeare ups from the dead.”

“Here,” said a small voice. Shakespeare opened his eyes. Crouching over him were Mary, Patch, and a small wench with the biggest eyes he’d ever seen.

“A good morrow, Willy cove,” Mary said, sneering. “Here. Take this. It’ll make you merry.”

“Go to Hell,” Shakespeare gasped out.

“You’d better not be saying queer words to me, eh?”

“Go to Hell,” Shakespeare repeated.

“Take a booze,” Mary said, holding a cup to his lips. “G’wan. Drink, man.”

Shakespeare turned his head away.

“I’ll be forcing it down your gullet if you keep acting queer.”

Shakespeare said nothing. Mary sighed. She opened his mouth — he had no strength — and forced him to drink.

He fell back asleep.

He woke up again as fuzzy as wool. His mouth was stuffed with rags. His entire head was swaddled in cloth. He tried to speak but couldn’t emit a sound. He opened his eyes. The dwarf was sitting by his side.

“He’s up, Mary,” Little Dickie said.

“Beneship,” Mary announced, coming over to him. She took the rags off his head and out of his mouth, then gave him a sip of aqua vitae with poppy syrup. Gently, she began bathing his face and neck in warm water.

“I bobbed your nose good.”

Shakespeare grunted.

“Broke it in three places.”

She was smiling!
Laughing!

“Bobbed out one of your teeth too.”

“Which one?” Shakespeare asked. Or did he? She didn’t answer him. “Which one?” he repeated, raising his voice.

“Huh?” Mary replied. “I donna understand what you say.”

“Which tooth?” Shakespeare said, desperately trying to articulate the words.

Mary sighed. “Don’t understand you.”

Raising his hand very slowly, Shakespeare pointed to his teeth.

“Which tooth did I bob?” Mary asked.

Shakespeare nodded.

“Your front left one next to the eye tooth. Chipped a little off of the lower teeth too. I cut your left eye up beneship as well, man.” She laughed again. “You’re ugly now. You could be one of us.”

She slapped him on the shoulder.

He moaned. His head began to spin — swirling eddies of sights and sounds — and he knew the poppy syrup was taking effect on his body. He felt her wrap his nose with swatches of medicated cloth that cooled his burning skin.

Mary was next to him, her hands stroking his chest, slipping under his hose.

“No,” he felt himself saying. But he never got the words out.

Her hand continued down onto his prick.

“Like it, Willy?” she teased. “Remember back to that night. Me and you niggling under the sheets. Aye, you were good back then. Big and strong. More fierce than a harnessed lion. Huh? Remember how you played with my titties. How you sucked ’em, pinched me bull eyes? Wanna pinch ’em again?”

He felt trapped in the eye of a gale.

“G’wan,” she said, placing his hand upon her breasts. “Pinch em. I like it. I’ll give it all to you. For free now.”

She continued stroking him. He felt himself go hard. Weakly, he squeezed her nipples with his fingertips.

“I’ll give you more, Willy. For free. Do merry things to your thing. Like this.”

She kneeled over his groin and took him in her mouth.

The storm raged throughout his entire body. Tighter and tighter she sucked, then abruptly pulled away.

“Like it?” Mary cooed. “I’ll give you more. More and more.”

She lowered her mouth to his prick once again. His stomach turned over. He felt himself floating, twisting in torrential winds. About to burst open.

Again she pulled away, mocking him. But her fingers continued to play upon him, rub him lightly.

“You can shoot in my mouth, Willy,” Mary said. “I like it when a strong man spends in my throat. All you’ve got to do is sing to me sweet words, my darling.”