The Quality of Mercy (53 page)

“Don’na want a whore,” Krabbey continued. “I coulda taken you by force, wench, once you undid me binds. You know that.”

Rebecca didn’t answer.

“Ach,” Krabbey said, waving his hand in disgust. “Krabbey never begged for wenches and he ain’t gonna start now.”

Rebecca said, “I’m deeply indebted to you for my life, Captain. For the lives of my kinsmen as well. You could have deserted us, your fellow countrymen. Instead you proved yourself to be a true Englishman — a man of valor.”

Krabbey laughed, slapped her back at the compliment. “Yer pissass cousins’ll pay dearly for their lives.” He leaned over Rebecca’s shoulder, his foul breath and body odor assaulting her nostrils even in the open air. He said, “Between you and me, girlie, I might be tempted to say that yer men did me service.”

“Aye?” Rebecca asked.

Krabbey nodded. He took her hand, brought it to his groin and squeezed her fingers around his erect penis.

“Feel that good, me little whore,” Krabbey said. “Ifin they don’t feel like that, send ’em home to mama.”

“I shall remember such wise words.” She struggled to extricate her fingers but to no avail. Krabbey grinned, then finally released her hand. He lay back on the deck and stared at the sky of woolly gray clouds.

“Been a while since I seen a maiden blushin’.” Krabbey snickered. He inhaled deeply then said, “The smell of the Spaniard makes a true Englishman go hot, his blood boil with ire but his cock bulge with excitement. Aye, m’lassie, this morning were not the first time I tasted the victory over the Papist bastards!” He turned to Rebecca. “Excusin’ my language if you ain’t no whore.”

“You fought under Drake?”

“Three times, girlie,” Krabbey said. “I earned my sea legs proper. I was aboard the
Victory
when Drake attacked the rear-guard wing of the mealy-assed Armada. I was under Howard when we sailed, our spirits high with the chance of drinkin’ Papist blood. Then comes around the
San Juan de Portugal
to meet us in battle. I’ll tell you that ship was bigger and mightier than the one we just escaped from. A heavy bastard with rows and rows of guns, over a thousand tons of weight and at least six, seven hundred evil-drooling Catholics ready to grapple and board our ship, burn us at the stake and offer our ashes in their idol worship. Man, I could tell ye, lass, that I was aching for the kill, but I’ll tell ye the truth when I say that we all pissed in our breeches when we saw the size of that galleon. We braced ourselves for a hot fight.”

Krabbey laughed.

“So in comes the
San Juan
ready to attack, and the rest of the Armada just sailed on, leavin’ Captain Recalde at the helm of the
San Juan
fightin’ a solo battle. They were a sight to spit at, wench. Drake closed the range to three hundred yards of the Spanish galleon and pounded the shit out of Recalde with our long guns and culverins. Finally the rest of the bastard Papist fleet realized that they’d left the
San Juan
out to die, and sent in
Grangrin
to drive Drake away. But by that time Recalde learned faster than a virgin in a vaulting school that Drake could maul the flota whenever we wished and without retaliation.”

Krabbey grabbed his groin again. “The smell of the sea infected me blood, girlie. I knew I’d never return to me former labor as a tinker. I went out to battle again with Drake in ’eighty-nine, under Norris this time.”

“The revolt of Don Antonio, aye?” Rebecca said.

“Aye, the Pretender. Ach, stinkin’ Papists, all of them! Portuguese as well as Spaniards. No wonder we were wiped from the seas. We should have been fightin’ against the Catholics, not with ’em, even if they were fighting each other. Philip, Don Antonio, they’re the same to me — ass-fucking bugger Papists!”

Miguel moaned. Rebecca stroked his burning cheek and sighed heavily. Quickly, she began to mix a medicinal paste of garlic, flour, and stale beer to bring down Miguel’s fever.

“Who’s this one to ye?” Krabbey asked her.

Rebecca said, “My betrothed.”

Krabbey looked confused. “Then who’s your whole-bodied baldy repairing the sails?” he asked, pointing to Shakespeare.

Rebecca sighed. Too difficult to explain. “Another cousin,” she answered.

“Ye with the dying one’s child?” Krabbey inquired.

“Why do you ask?” Rebecca answered.

“The boy’ll be a corpse in your arms before we sight land, lassie,” Krabbey said. “Ifin you be with his babe, I’d be willin’ to make ye honest and take the bastard as my own. I got lots of silver, girlie, and can be buying you fine clothes and goodly trinkets. I’m over forty-two and don’t have much time left in this world. All me possessions would be goin’ to you when I die. A goodly bargain, mistress, ifin you could put up with a whoreson like meself for a few years.”

Rebecca was touched. She said, “I’m not with child, Captain. And by my troth, my betrothed will not die. But I thank you for your kind offering.”

The winds began to kick up, filling the previously slackened sails with air. At last, thought Rebecca. Motion. Krabbey rose.

“The winds call me to my helm, and I got me business to do,” he said. “The clouds’ll be asquallin’ afore I can spit. I won’t go frettin’ none over your stubbornness. Me proposal was just a thought.” He grabbed his groin again. “By tomorrow night, I pledge you that it won’t be goin’ hungry.”

Rebecca bowed her head demurely, waited until Krabbey was gone before she looked up again. She would have laughed to herself had not Miguel shivered violently in her arms.

As the
Bounty
came in to dock at Dover, Rebecca held back tears. Her land! Her country! The steel sky, the pelting rain suddenly seemed not gloomy but glorious, renewing. When the boat was anchored, she stood a moment upon the deck, shivering, her arms wrapped tightly about her chest, breathing in English air. Shakespeare came up from behind, threw a cloak around her shoulders and handed her Reina. Rebecca covered the little girl and ran for the protection of an overhang. Fifteen minutes later Shakespeare reemerged with Thomas, who supported himself with two iron bars for walking sticks. His movements were slow, methodical, and painful. Rebecca noticed he winced with each step, but he refused more than once to accept help from Shakespeare. The two of them made their way over to Rebecca and Reina.

Shakespeare said, “Dunstan and I will stay with Miguel on the
Bounty
. Your betrothed sleeps deeply, and I think it unwise to wake him. Best if you take your cousin and the girl back to the Flounder, and we’ll join you as soon as we’re able to move Miguel.”

Rebecca nodded, then regarded Thomas struggling with the sticks. She said, “We should get a hackney—”

“Rubbish!” Thomas cried out. “It’ll harden my leg muscles to walk.”

“Tommy, I—”

“Let’s go!” Thomas commanded her. “I said I’m well.”

Rebecca knew by her cousin’s tone that she had no choice but to listen.

It took them an hour to trudge to their rented chamber — mercifully prepared, the hearth ablaze. Thomas fell onto the bed. His face had hardened from two days at sea, his skin no longer held a youthful blush. His cheeks were chapped and rough, his eyes sunken and old.

Rebecca removed the little girl’s wet clothing, wrapped her in a blanket and set her by the fireplace. Reina curled into a ball, stuck her thumb in her mouth and fell asleep. Rebecca approached Thomas and began to strip him of his shredded clothing. In a flash he was on top of her, his chest weighing heavily on her body, his hands under her doublet. Rebecca froze with shock. He clamped his lips over hers, then as abruptly as he came upon her, he pulled his mouth away.

“Pray, Becca,” he whispered. “Get me a whore.”

She whispered she would.

“And flasks of port,” Thomas added. He removed his hands from Rebecca’s breasts and held her cheeks. “Anything to distract me from the pain in my leg.”

Rebecca embraced her cousin, brought his head down to her chest. “Poor Tommy.” She stroked his cheek. “Need you further help in removing your clothes?”

He shook his head and rolled off her. “I only have need of a stew and stupor.”

Thomas was noisy, the whore even more boisterous, but Rebecca could have slept through it all had her mind been at peace. But her thoughts were with Miguel, with her father as well. She lay stretched out on the floor, her back to the fireplace, Reina in her arms. With an exasperated sigh, she brought the blanket over her head.

Across the room the whore laughed.

Shut up! Rebecca thought. God, just shut up!

Again the whore let out peals of raucous laughter, then said something lewd to Thomas. The trull had an irritating squeaky voice! Rebecca stuck her fingers in her ears and cursed her throbbing head. She could feel the pounding of her heart in her brain through her fingertips.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump,
each beat fireworks inside her head.

Again the whore squealed like a sow. Thomas was giggling now, speaking in a slurred voice. Rebecca wrapped Reina in the blanket, then stood up and glared at the stew.

“Out!” she shouted, pointing to the door.

The whore made a face to Thomas. “What’s sticking in
her
craw?”

There it was! That tinny voice again!

Rebecca marched over to the bed and pulled the whore from the sheets. The room stunk of sweat and spilled seed.

“Get your clothes on and leave!” Rebecca ordered her.

“You’re naked,” Thomas said to his cousin.

“Go to sleep, Tommy,” Rebecca said sourly. She pulled a chemise over the whore’s body.

“I can dress myself!” the trull protested.

“Not fast enough!” Rebecca answered, slapping a bodice onto the whore’s chest.

“What’d
I
do?” the whore said. She began to whine.

“I’ve never seen you naked,” Thomas said, grinning stupidly at Rebecca.

“Your brother is very good,” the whore squeaked out.

“I rejoice with the knowledge that he hath pleased you,” Rebecca said, lacing up the last of the trull’s points. She pushed the whore out the door.

“Go to sleep,” she repeated.

He flung off the sheets and patted the mattress. “Come to me.”

Rebecca ignored him and slipped on her chemise. The room was dark except for the dwindling fire that flickered in the hearth. She placed a log on the flame and lit the rush candles in the wall sconces, wondering what was taking the others so long.

Thomas said, “Pour me another tankard. Then come and join me. I have need of company.”

“You have need of sleep.” But she dutifully opened another bottle and gave it to Thomas. She pulled back the sheets, picked up a candle and examined his wounded leg.

Thomas grew serious. “How does it fare?” he asked.

Eventually she said, “No evidence of gangrenous tissue. I do believe that you will be whole-bodied in no time.”

Thomas smiled with relief.

“The pain is bad?” she asked.

“This scratch? Bah!”

Rebecca stood and began to pace.

“Sit with me,” Thomas bade her.

“I cannot stay still. My mind is too preoccupied. I’m going back to the boat. I find this uncertainty maddening.”

“No,” Thomas protested.

“I’ll be but a half hour at the most. Reina’s asleep.”

“What will you wear? Your clothes are soaked.”

“No matter. It rains furiously outside. Even dry clothing would become sopping wet in a matter of minutes.”

“Don’t leave, Becca. Wait another hour. Perhaps they’ll be along shortly.”

Rebecca paused. “A half hour,” she said.

“A half hour, then,” Thomas said. “Sit with me.”

She shook her head and lay down next to Reina.

“The floor is hard,” Thomas said.

“I’m comfortable. I’ll keep guard over the little one.”

“You avoid me.”

Rebecca didn’t answer. Fifteen minutes later she sat up and listened. “I hear someone coming. Dear God, let it be them.” She ran to open the door.

Shakespeare entered, holding Miguel over his shoulders. Dunstan cradled the lifeless Pedro in his arms and carried their provisions on his back. The men were dripping wet, as if they were watercolors bleeding on canvas.

Rebecca said, “Let me help you out of your clothes!”

Thomas shifted to one side and Shakespeare gently placed Miguel on the bed, facedown. Rebecca knelt by her betrothed’s side. He was a breath away from death.

Dunstan placed the little boy’s body in the corner of the room then dropped the bags onto the floor. Shakespeare stripped naked then dressed quickly. The new clothes were limp, damp with moisture, yet they felt warm upon his chilled skin. He said,

“Krabbey awaits us downstairs for cheery company and supper. We dare not displease the good captain. Do you want to go down or should I?”

Dunstan pulled off sopping breeches. He said, “You go. Make sure the fire in his stomach is well doused. And buy him a whore. I’ll join the two of you in a few minutes.”

Shakespeare nodded and left.

“Get me my vials, cousin,” Rebecca said to Dunstan. Her voice was weak with despair. “I’ll see what I can prepare for Miguel.”

Dunstan stood and sniffed. His head began to pound, his hands began to shake. Anger blurred his vision, dulled his reasoning. He took a deep breath and calmly asked Rebecca, “Why does this room smell like a brothel? And pray, cousin,
what
do you wear under your chemise?”

Rebecca glared back at him, angered by the insinuation.

“What has passed in this room?” Dunstan asked.

Stupid ass, she thought. Impetuous fool, always seeing the worst in people because he was such a woodcock himself.

She said, “My potions, I pray you, Dunstan.”

“What were the two of you doing?” Dunstan asked menacingly.

Rebecca shrieked, “Ask your brother, if your curiosity is so overwhelming.”

Dunstan burned with hatred. He grabbed Rebecca by the hair and ripped her chemise from her body. “You whore.” He slapped her across the face several times in succession. “You dirty, disgusting whore!”

“Dunstan!” Thomas interjected. “God’s blood, you ass, what are you doing!”