The Quality of Mercy (60 page)

Absent was Grandmama. With a cursory question, Roderigo dutifully asked about his mother-in-law. She was ill but sent her love, Sarah told him.

Roderigo cast his eyes upon his daughter. Rebecca kneeled before her father, but Roderigo lifted her upward and took her into his arms, hugging her as tightly as his strength would allow.

“Dear God,” he cried. “I quaked with fear at the thought of dying. Yet worse was the thought that I’d never see you again.”

Rebecca whispered, “I love you, Father.”

Roderigo continued embracing her, rocked her in his arms.

Shakespeare witnessed the reunion with the staff of the kitchen — at the request of Rebecca’s family.

That’s not to say we don’t appreciate your service,
Sir George Ames had said.
But we must explain your presence to Dr. Lopez, and as we will not have adequate time to properly
—

Shakespeare had cut him off, saying he understood.

Sir George had offered him money.

Shakespeare had refused. He now wondered whether it was a wise decision. His pockets were nearly empty after sending Anne his money, the theaters were bolted shut, and he hadn’t received funds for his writing from his patron, Lord Southampton. Had Shakespeare accepted the converso’s money, at least he would have walked away with
something
tonight. For as he looked at Rebecca in her father’s arms, he knew that her troth would never come to pass.

Shakespeare listened as Rebecca made her excuses, unmoved by her pleas, tears, and promises. They stood just inside the front entrance to the manor house, speaking in hushed tones, Rebecca holding his sleeve and hoping that this meager physical joining would keep him by her side. She begged for some more time. Six weeks at the most. She was obligated to Miguel until his recovery was complete. Her father would be devastated if she left so soon after his terrible ordeal. She just wanted a little more time with her grandam.

When she finished her impassioned speech, he simply shrugged, pulled away from her, stuck his hands in the pockets of his jerkin and closed the door behind him. Rebecca cursed and followed him out into blackness, down the estate’s arcade, oblivious to the winds and to the freezing rain that sprayed her woolen nightgown.

“Don’t leave now,” she implored. “It’s three hours until sunrise. At least wait till the crow of the cock.”

“The gates of the city will be open by the time I walk the distance,” Shakespeare said.

“I’ll come to thee this afternoon,” Rebecca said.

“No.”

“Tomorrow, then,” she said.

“No.”

“When?”

Shakespeare reached the end of the colonnade and adjusted his hat. Stepping into the courtyard, he was assaulted by downpour.

“When can I see thee?” Rebecca repeated, walking into the open space. She didn’t flinch even as water showered her face and nightclothing. Angrily, she brushed wet strands of hair from her eyes.

“When can I see thee?” she repeated, following him.

“Farewell, Rebecca,” Shakespeare said. “I wish you good hap.”

Rebecca grabbed his arm. “I
will
elope with thee, my love, but I need time. Just grant me a little extra time.”

“Take as much time as you require,” Shakespeare said.

“I’ll meet thee today, at two of the clock at the corner of Old Jewry near Gresham’s mansion.”

“You may do as you wish,” Shakespeare said. “Tis no concern of mine.”

“Willy—”

“You’ll catch ague if you remain unprotected in such cold, mistress.”

“The outside chill is but a balmy breeze compared to the ice of thy heart,” Rebecca said.

Shakespeare said, “I pray you, release my arm.”

“I’ll come to thy closet
directly,
” Rebecca said. “At two. Swear to me that thou wilt receive me.”

“No.”

“William, please!” she said, shivering. “Just give me a chance to explain. Then if thou desires to cut me out of thy life, I’ll not object.”

“Let go of my arm.”

“Promise me.”

“Promise you what, mistress?” Shakespeare said.

“I’ll be in the city at two.” Rebecca steadied her voice. “Please, I beg thee, let me come to thee and explain my position.”

“Your position is clear, Rebecca,” Shakespeare said. “It couldn’t be clearer.”

Rebecca yanked her hair and stamped her foot in a puddle, splashing mud and water up into her nightdress. Shakespeare noticed her feet were bare. She began to cry.

“Go back inside, Becca,” he said tenderly. “Please.”

“Then swear thou’ll meet me at thy closet at two,” Rebecca said.

Shakespeare paused. It was useless to argue with her. She was as tenacious as a bulldog. He agreed to meet her. She made him swear it.

“At two, then.” Rebecca smiled as she trembled. “Thou’ll be there waiting for me?”

“Aye.”

“Thou swore it.”

“I know.”

“And thou shalt keep thy pledge?”

“Aye,” Shakespeare said.

“I love thee, Will,” Rebecca said.

Shakespeare stroked her damask cheek and said, “Back into the house, m’lady.”

“I love thee,” Rebecca repeated.

Shakespeare swatted her bottom. “Go.”

Rebecca wiped away tears and rainwater from her face and headed back to the manor. Shakespeare wondered whether she
really
believed he’d keep his pledge.

By the dinner hour he was well fed, packed, and penniless. He’d taken “The Rape of Lucrece” off to William Jaggard for printing, allowing plenty of time for the Stationer’s office to register it by the upcoming spring. In Shakespeare’s leather pouch was a copy of the poem for Southampton. If hap be sweet, the earl would be moved to tears, so emotionally swept away by the poetry that he couldn’t help but part with some gold coins for its writer.

After the success of
Venus and Adonis,
Shakespeare’s friends had been astonished that he didn’t abandon the stage and acting in favor of writing pamphlets. But Shakespeare understood the whims of public taste, that his writings could suddenly lose popular appeal and he’d be left destitute. The life of an actor and bookwriter was, in its own curious way, more stable. Plays could be written quickly and altered just as fast. They could be made timely by simply inserting a reference to a current topic. More important, the fellowship, if successful, was financially independent — not at the mercy of a benefactor’s purse strings.

Shakespeare was confident that the earl would find the dedication of “Lucrece” to his liking and would enjoy the poem as well. If Southampton was as generous as he’d been in the past, Shakespeare would have the means for a merry Christmas with his family — a big yule log, presents for the children, and pots of ale for wassail. Christmas with his loved ones — his parents, Anne’s parents, the children.

And to think he’d been ready to give it all up for a Jewess. Aye, he’d been correct the first time he’d laid eyes upon Rebecca. She was a witch.

Yet, strangely, he wished her no harm. All he wanted to do was forget her, to distance himself from the perfume of her body, from her silken touch….

Shivers trailed down his spine.

Maybe in another lifetime.

His schedule: first Southampton, then Christmas with the family, then on to Brithall — to Henley manor house.

Talk to the priest, Mackering had told him.

Harry, the Catholic — a man as faceted as a royal jewel.

Shakespeare threw his bag over his shoulder.

Rebecca had waylaid him once. But no more. He didn’t feel even a tinge of remorse at breaking his pledge. Hadn’t she broken her troths countless times?

Shakespeare closed and locked the door of his closet, leaving behind no note of explanation. Rebecca was a clever wench. She’d read the unwritten lines.

It was not the Christmas Shakespeare had imagined.

Its beginnings had been promising. Anne had been delighted with her Christmas present — three sovereigns wrapped in gaily colored paper. She’d even kissed him spontaneously, loved him wickedly the night of his return. Yet the longer he stayed in Warwick, the more he felt like a stranger in his own house. Anne’s business never seemed to pertain to him. When he tried to talk to her about domestic concerns — the condition of the house, the health of their parents, Hamnet’s schooling — Shakespeare sensed a note of impatience in his wife’s voice. She seemed even
less
interested in what had happened to him in London since his last home visit.

Their dialogues were soon steeped in cold silence.

The morning after Twelfth Night, Shakespeare was on the road to Brithall.

Travel was slow, but the inns were warm. He was able to afford the best, thanks to Southampton’s generosity — more money than conceived in his most fanciful dreams. His pockets and purse jangled pleasantly as he rode. Rich with coins, poor with love.

By the time he arrived up North, freezing rain had turned to snow and sleet, muddy trails covered with strips of gray ice. Winter had fallen upon the country, draping the mountains, hills, and grasslands with yards of folded white velvet. The air had been mercifully calm on his trek upward, the winds stinging cold but gentle. Aye, the snow fell constantly, but it was as if Providence had chosen to tickle the landscape this January rather than to pummel it.

He reached the outskirts of Brithall on January ninth, shortly before the supper hour. It took him another ten minutes of riding through open snow drifts before the manor came into view. Riding up to the gatehouse, he pulled his horse to a stop, reached inside his bag and pulled out the personal letter of reference from Margaret Whitman. Though Shakespeare had spoken briefly with the lord of the manor, Viscount Henley, on his first trip up North, he’d not met the priest. The letter assured the lord that Shakespeare was trustworthy and would defend the secrecy of the Jesuit with his life. Shakespeare wondered whether that was true, but hopefully he’d never be forced to prove the boastful words. He placed the letter back in his cloak. The parchment was of poor quality, and if left too long in the cold, would freeze and crack.

Shakespeare studied the manor. On his last visit he’d been so engrossed in the house’s magnificent gardens that he scarcely looked at the building itself. But now, with the rest of the land covered with white, Brithall stood out like a full moon against a black sky. Beyond the gatehouse was a gravel courtyard, then the entrance arch to the manor. On either side of the arch sat a hexagonal tower several stories high, ringed with leaded-glass windows. The peaks of the towers were embellished with rich plaster molding, cast in a rose and hawk motif — the Henley crest. On either side of the towers were square walls of cut stone. The left wing of the manor house seemed a bit larger than the right — no doubt it held the Great Hall — and ended in another tower fashioned like the pair flanking the arch.

Shakespeare waited to be halted by the guards at the gatehouse, and when no one came to greet him, he rode through the courtyard up to the front of the manor. He dismounted and knocked on the arched door — a solid piece of wood crisscrossed with iron — a door that should have been part of a fortified castle rather than a manor house. Unless, of course, the manor house concealed a priest…

It took five minutes before a footman opened the door. Shakespeare introduced himself, presented Margaret’s letter, and then was left in the cold, waiting to see if Lord Henley would bid him welcome or send him away.

Another few minutes passed before the door was opened again by Robert Whitman, Viscount Henley himself. He was a man of dominating physical appearance — tall, swarthy, and solid. Nothing about him was subtle, a portrait created in dark, brooding oils rather than pastel watercolors. His beard was long and pomaded, his eyes tarry black. He nodded recognition, threw open the door and stood aside from the threshold, allowing Shakespeare to step inside. With a snap of his fingers Henley had his servants removing Shakespeare’s cloak and gloves and brushing off his boots. A groom was dispatched to take care of Shakespeare’s horse.

“We were just about to take supper,” Henley said, his voice loud and deep. “I’ll have one of the servers set a plate for you upon the dais.”

Shakespeare was about to protest, but Henley cut him off.

“Come, good man. The ride up here must have been treacherous.”

Shakespeare said, “Aye, but blessed be the Almighty, no storms did arise. And the inns of England are the finest in the world.”

“God save the Queen,” said Henley.

“God save the Queen,” repeated Shakespeare. He stopped walking and pulled out a wrapped package. “If your lordship will allow me the honor, in humble gratitude I offer you a small trinket — a toy unworthy to be housed with such finery that your worship possesses.”

Henley took the package, unwrapped it, and inspected it. It was a silver plate of sterling, heavy, and richly engraved. Henley knew it had cost the player well over what he could afford, yet he accepted the plate as if it were a bauble, thanking Shakespeare in a cool, detached voice. Any large display of gratitude would be ignoble, considering their differing classes. Still, Henley was impressed that the actor had taken such care in his selection of a gift. Harry had been correct in his assessment of his young apprentice. Long ago he’d said that Shakespeare was a man of unusual wit and taste. A clever man, not to be taken lightly. He knew much… too much.

“Shall we proceed?” Henley said.

“After your lordship,” Shakespeare said.

“Well, then.” Henley took the lead. “Come.”

Shakespeare followed Henley into the Great Hall — as he’d guessed, in the left wing of the house. The stone walls rose fifty feet, the ceiling timbered and beamed with coarse slabs of darkstained oak. Upon the walls hung selected weapons from the family armor. The dais, resting against the eastern side of the room, had a direct view of the open floor pit. Rotating on the spit — the broach — was a boar, its dripping fat feeding the crackling flames below. The smell of grease and fresh-cooked meat sent Shakespeare’s belly astorming. It had been almost a full day since he’d taken a stomach. On the other side of the pit were two rows of trestle tables flanked by benches. On them sat the staff of Brithall, waiting for their lord to take his seat.