The Quality of Mercy (40 page)

She sucked him again, then asked, “Where’s the mint, Willy?”

Shakespeare didn’t answer.

“The bits, Willy man,” she said, “the money you filched from the master. Where’d you hide it?”

“No,” he whispered.

“Tell me where it is, my sweet.”

He shook his head.

“You can trust me.” She began sucking him again. “Tell me,” she cooed between mouthfuls. “Tell me.”

Shakespeare said nothing. He panted like a raced dog and bit his sore lip, about to spend. She jerked her head away.

“Tell me,” she whispered. “Where’d you blind the money, Willy, my sweet?”

“I…” he started to say.

“Aye…” she encouraged him. “Go on.”

“I…”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

Mary wrapped her finger around the shaft of his penis and squeezed as hard as she could. Shakespeare felt himself about to burst.

“Tell me,” Mary said, red-faced from squeezing.

Shakespeare groaned.

With an evil smile, Mary held up her fool’s finger, the nail honed to a razor-sharp point. All at once she let go of his prick and rammed her fingernail up his anus.

The pain was excruciating, but mixed oddly with an ecstasy Shakespeare had never experienced. He gasped, screamed, then involuntarily spent — all over Mary’s face.

“You son of a bitch!”
she yelled, jerking her finger out of his bum.

Shakespeare gave her a bruised smile.

Mary wiped her stinging eyes and began to choke him. He didn’t care even as he slipped back into darkness. A moment later he felt himself breathing again. He opened his eyes. An ogre as big as a tower was restraining Mary; she was kicking and fighting in his arms.

“Stow you, Mary.” The giant tightened his hold upon her. The bawd went slack. “Stow you, I say. You dinna get what you want… the master’ll get it.”

“He’s gonna
kill
me.”

“Nay.”

“Aye. You don’t know the master like I know him.”

“Let Shakespeare sleep till dawn. Then ply him with more syrup. Keep doing it till the master’s ready to see him. The master’ll get what he wants.”

The next time Shakespeare awoke, he made sure that no one heard him rouse. How many hours, how many
days
had passed, he knew not. Very carefully he opened an eye and saw that no one was tending to him. He allowed himself to look around the barn.

The place was covered with used straw full of dirt and grease — and shit and piss. The north wall was piled high with heaps of stolen clothing. In front of the rags were clouds of feathers, and he heard noise caused by chickens penned in a half-dozen coops.

In the center of the room Poor Tom — the very same madman he’d seen the day he’d walked the streets of London with Rebecca — was dicing with Patch. Little Dickie was pissing in a bowl. A moment later the dwarf blended the urine with brown powder — gunpowder probably. He took a batch of the mixture on a piece of brown paper and rubbed it over Poor Tom’s left arm. Within minutes the skin burst open and began to ooze out clear liquid.

Bringing up the crabs, the rogues called it. Beggars crusted with scabs evoked the pity of the tender-hearted Englishwoman. Shakespeare knew the sores would heal over in twenty-four hours.

“Put another dab on me nose,” Poor Tom said. He rolled the dice, shouted as his number came up and grabbed a handful of coins. “Me hap’s a sweet wench tonight.”

Patch swore. Little Dickie returned and placed a spoonful of sore paste on Poor Tom’s fleshy nose. The tip instantly broke into a weal of angry red flesh.

“How much bit did you nab yesterday?” Little Dickie asked Tom.

“Not much mint, but a fair lady took pity on me wretched body and gave me a ring that’s beneship indeed.” Poor Tom pulled it out of his purse and showed it to the dwarf.

“Where’s can I get soap?” called a voice at Shakespeare’s left — a voice he’d heard before.

Very slowly, Shakespeare turned his head in its direction. There stood Pigsfeet. Nightmares coming to life. He was so tired, needed sleep. But he refused to close his eyes. Must know what’s going on. He strained to listen. Pigsfeet was talking… needing soap.

“…and the master wants me down with falling sickness. He says I need the froth and I should eat bits of soap.”

“Don’t eat ’em,” said Little Dickie. “Swish ’em around your mouth. Then fall down on the ground and let the suds fall out.”

“Act like a mad dog,” said Poor Tom. “Howl and growl.” He broke into animal noises. “Like that.”

Little Dickie said, “Talk with Christopher Mudd. He’d be at Paul’s by now, pickpocketing the gentlemen. You and him can filch some soap from a stall at the Cheape.”

Pigsfeet nodded and left. A moment later Poor Tom shouted with glee, leaped up and clapped his hands.

“Me hap is sweeter than a honeyed pear tonight,” he said, dropping more coins in his purse.

“You use stopped dice,” said Patch.

“Aye,” Poor Tom said, admitting the cheat. “But so did you.”

Shakespeare heard Patch swear, saw Poor Tom looking at him. Asking how long they had to watch him.

Tom said, “I’ve got to be gone. Me fans await me playing. ‘What’ll ye give this Poor Tom, today, wisely and well.’” He laughed. “I say we kill the jack. Slit his throat.”

Shakespeare’s stomach lurched.

“The master donna want him killed,” Patch said. “See, this is the ass that’s been filching from the master’s purse.”

“He’s the ass?”

“Yes.”

“Then we should kill him.”

“The master wants the money that Shakespeare lifted from him,” Little Dickie explained. “Mackering told Mary to niggle him. Get him all hot and moaning from a pelting prick. Then he’d tell her where he blinded the coins.”

“Did he tell her?”

“Nay,” Patch snickered. “Only soaked her eyes with a whirlpool of his stuff.”

Tom broke into gales of laughter.

“She does her toil not wisely but too well,” he said.

“She does her toil especially well now that she’s missing her front teeth,” said Patch. “She can’t bite it.”

They both spasmed with guffaws.

Poor Tom dried his eyes on a sheet wrapped around his waist. “What’s the master gonna do with him?” he asked.

“Shakespeare?” asked Patch.

“Aye. Shakespeare.”

“I know not,” Patch said. “Giant’s gonna take him to the master in the dark.”

The master, Shakespeare thought. Finally they meet.

“Better give Shakespeare more poppy syrup,” said Little Dickie. “Mary said every four hours. It’s been four hours.”

Shakespeare closed his eyes.

“He’s still sleeping,” Poor Tom said.

“Give it to him anyway,” Patch insisted. “Don’t want to dance with Mary’s pelting temper, man.”

“Aye,” Poor Tom said.

Shakespeare felt his mouth being opened. He swallowed the syrup and went back to sleep.

Giant was the biggest man Shakespeare had ever seen. Even though his mind was foggy from poppy syrup, he could discern the lout’s enormous jaw, his oversized head. His brow was a knobby shelf topped with black fur, his eyes piggish — one colored muddy brown, the other emerald green. His hands were as wide as spades. One of those hands gripped Shakespeare’s shoulder, sending a bolt of pain throughout his body.

“On your feet,” the big man ordered, his voice deeper than a blowhole.

Shakespeare stood, rocked on his feet, then fell.

“Get up,” Giant ordered, pulling Shakespeare to his feet.

At last he was able to stand erect. Giant slapped a blindfold over Shakespeare’s eyes, bound his hands behind his back, and tied his ankles together. Shakespeare felt himself being hoisted into the air, carried, then placed prone onto a hard, cold slab of metal. He sensed himself moving, being rolled along on wheels.

A wagon… No, a wheelbarrow.

The cold air bit his face. He began to shiver.

Must be night.

He felt the bumps along the dirt, his body stinging with each jolting movement. A sackcloth was thrown atop his body. The coarse wool itched his face. He thought of more pleasant times, the stolen hours of night he’d shared with Rebecca.

Another bump rocked his body with pain.

Get used to it, he thought. After all, it’s time to meet the master.

The motion of the wheelbarrow rocked Shakespeare to sleep, and he didn’t bother rousing until he’d come to a complete halt. Someone uncovered him, stood him on his feet, cut the ties around his ankles, and jabbed the tip of a blade in his back.

“Walk straight ahead.”

Giant’s voice.

“With my eyes hooded?” asked Shakespeare.

“Walk.”

Shakespeare moved slowly, aware of the dagger behind him.

“Stop,” Giant said. “In front of you are stairs. Climb them.”

Shakespeare obeyed. They reached a landing. He heard a door open and was suddenly pushed forward. The door closed.

He didn’t know where he was, but at least the knife no longer nicked his flesh.

Was he alone?

He walked about, blind, stumbling, straining his ears. Frantically, he began to twist his hands against the binds, abrading them red and raw. The ropes held fast. He cursed, dropped to the ground. He crept like a snake upon its belly, dragging his forehead against the rush-strewn floor. The blindfold remained in place, a nasty scrape above his brow the only result of his efforts. He swore vengeance and turned onto his back. Swinging his knees to his forehead, he wedged the edge of the blindfold between his knees and brow and pushed upward.

Nothing.

Sweating, he tried it again, repeated it a third, fourth, and fifth time. He grunted and once again attempted to loosen the veil that covered his eyes, pulling the rag upward as hard as he was able. After what seemed like an eternity, the cloth began to slip upward, yielding to his tugs. Finally the back knot of the blindfold loosened sufficiently and the cloth slipped over his head.

Though it was still night — he knew not the exact hour — the closet’s dim illumination seemed as brilliant as daylight. Lights flickered from wall sconces filled with rush candles. Trying to catch his breath, he lay his head back and watched the shadows leap upon the beamed ceiling. But his moment of solitude was interrupted by heavy clapping. Shakespeare bolted upward, focused his eyes upon the south corner of the near-empty room.

Under a lit sconce stood a man applauding, his face as leathery as a sun-dried hide. Wrinkles, crevices, and creases eroded pathways through nutmeg-colored flesh. His eyes were storming seas of green-gray, his nose surprisingly small and round. He sported no beard at all, but the hair atop his head was coarse and hued yellow — a flat yellow without a hint of gold — a pile of windblown straw. His neck was as wide as his cheeks, giving the illusion of a long, thick face attached directly to his shoulders. He wore a leather jerkin over a white linen shirt and from his belt dangled a gleaming rapier. His teeth were large and whole and sparkled as he smiled.

Shakespeare felt small in his presence. There was a frightening demeanor about him. Here was a clever but evil man as comfortable with power as a monarch, someone who manipulated his inferiors like men on a chessboard.

The man said, “‘Man and a blindfold.’ What a scene! As bonny as any you’ve ever performed on the platform.” He threw a chair in Shakespeare’s direction. “Sit.”

Shakespeare uprighted the chair with his foot and sat down, keeping his eyes fixed upon the rapier. The man stroked his naked chin, then sauntered over to Shakespeare and stood in front of him, his body heavy with bulging muscles. He drew a poniard from his jerkin and said,

“You’re a damned nuisance.”

Shakespeare said nothing.

“I’ve tried to ignore you, but you’re a persistent bugger. You’d try the patience of the Savior.” He grazed the tip of the stylus across Shakespeare’s throat. “Where’d you hide my money?”

“Tell me about Harry Whitman, Mackering.”

Mackering said, “Obviously you still delude yourself that you have power over me.”

Shakespeare looked upward, saw those evil eyes. He said, “Power, not a whit. Money…”

The gray-green orbs compressed to steely balls. “Where are my bits?”

Shakespeare said, “Tell me about Harry.”

Mackering brought the blade against the bob of Shakespeare’s throat. He said, “Who is this man, Harry, that he is so important to you?”

“He was my friend,” Shakespeare whispered. “I mean to find out who murdered him.”

“So you are Harry’s avenging angel, eh?” Mackering said. “Not in much of a position to avenge.”

“Did you kill Harry?” Shakespeare asked.

Mackering gave off a low sinister laugh. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t.” He flicked the blade against Shakespeare’s face and shaved him in three deft strokes. Gliding his fingers across Shakespeare’s jawline, Mackering chucked his chin, then soundly slapped Shakespeare’s newly shaved cheeks.

“Were I, my good man, at this moment of the inclination, I’d say you look good enough to eat.”

Shakespeare said, “Though the skin is smooth, the flesh is poisonous.”

Mackering widened his eyes and brought his hand to his chest. “A remark of intimidation,” he said. “I quake.”

“An honest caveat, Mackering. I’ve partaken of the flesh you sell on the streets. Some of your doxies serve good meat, others only Winchester geese.”

Mackering’s face darkened. “I’ve had all my doxies inside and out and found them clean. Which have you found infected?”

“All your doxies seem as one in the dark — foul breath, stringy meat, and sloppy, wet holes.”

Mackering laughed. He picked up his dagger and one by one sliced off the buttons of Shakespeare’s shirt. The open garment revealed a pink wedge of bare chest.

“You bluff poorly, Willyboy.” Mackering parted the shirt with his dagger, then ran the tip of his blade around Shakespeare’s nipple. “You lie in your throat as I do stand.” He grinned, brought the dagger down to Shakespeare’s round hose and cut the string of a point. “I’d say you are very much free from the King’s Evil. But for the sake of clever talk, assume you speak the truth. That maybe you are infected. I’m a gambler. I enjoy taking risks.”