The Quality of Mercy (82 page)

“Is that what you called Harry, Mackering? Harryboy?”

Mackering tensed. Quietly, he said, “Is it your intention to duel for your friend’s honor, Willyboy? You’ll lose if you take me on. You haven’t a chance on earth — nor in Heaven and Hell. I’m more skilled at the fence than Mann, and you dueled so clumsily with him, Willyboy.” He suddenly turned to Rebecca. “Get out of here, girly, lest you want to see your lover die. And tell your cousins to keep out of my graveyards!”

Rebecca remained where she stood.

Mackering said, “Your choice, my sweet wench. In sooth, I could take you both as a pair. Wouldn’t that be fun?” He looked at Shakespeare. “If you keep your mouth shut and do what I desire, you may live, Willy. Think about it. I’ll give you things. I give all my little toys things. I gave Harry money, lots of money to pay off Chambers, whereupon Chambers gave the money back to me.”

Mackering sneered. “But the greedy little pig wanted more. Poor Harry had to start borrowing from his relatives. Then I found out that that priggish swine Chambers was holding back on me. Gads, he had become a bloody nuisance!”

“But you didn’t murder Chambers for that reason,” Shakespeare said. “He was giving you much gold and silver, and you would never cut off a source of revenue.”

Mackering smiled, bemused. “Then why did I murder him?”

“You murdered the stew,” Shakespeare said. “Chambers just happened to be present. Since my release you’ve had me followed. When my trail finally led back to the North,
you
shadowed me. Twas you and not Mann in the tavern where Fottingham and I drank.”

Mackering kept smiling, yet Shakespeare knew he was listening to every word he spoke.

Shakespeare continued, “You murdered Cat because she knew that you’d lain with men. And you knew I meant to speak with Cat. Yes, I understand it all now. Harry must have told her your pleasures.” He added the lie, “Just as he told
me
. And Heaven forbid it be known that the great Mackering, the
fiercesome
uprightman, the world’s greatest
cocksman,
stiffens well for wenches but even greater for
men
.”

Mackering’s smile disappeared. “You use words well, Shakespeare. Too well. Your mouth is not to be trusted.” He drew his sword, brought it to his forehead and saluted. He opened his arms, exposing his chest. “Come get me, Willyboy.”

Shakespeare charged. Mackering blocked. Then the game began. Shakespeare executed an attack, only to have Mackering outmaneuver him. Shakespeare lunged, but Mackering was always slightly out of reach. Mackering. Always laughing! Always sneering! Shakespeare knew the uprightman was toying with him. No matter how fast he moved, Mackering was quicker. No matter how brilliant his attacks were, Mackering’s were superior. It was only a matter of time.

Shakespeare charged, his sword pointed toward Mackering’s shoulder. Mackering easily parried and threatened Shakespeare with a head cut. Shakespeare blocked the attack with his dagger.

His legs were giving way.

He tried to lunge, tripped and fell forward onto his knees. Mackering let out a belly laugh. Swaggering over, he held out his hand to Shakespeare.

Shakespeare regarded the helpful hand, knew what it implied. He recalled what Mackering had done to him, fingered the handle of his dagger, and suddenly plunged it into the proffered palm and pulled it out. Mackering howled in pain. His nostrils flared with rage, his cheeks turned crimson. He choked out,

“That was a very foolish thing to do, Willy.” Yanking off his sleeve, he wrapped it around the bloody flesh. “The hour is getting on. Soon the city will be alive. Since you insist on remaining obstinate despite my good nature, I see I have no choice but to kill you.”

This time Shakespeare saw the murderous look in Mackering’s eyes. And so did Rebecca. On her belly, she slithered out of Mackering’s sight and grabbed the first thing that made contact with her hand — a dagger.

Mackering smiled at Shakespeare and said, “I greatly like to see before me a man on his knees.” He drew his sword. “Drop the dagger, Willyboy. I desire not a sudden poke in my privates.”

Shakespeare didn’t move.

“Drop the dagger.” Mackering extended his blade toward Shakespeare’s heart. “Drop the dagger, wee Willy. Or not only will you die, but the girl as well.” Mackering’s eyes swiftly darted to his right and left.

“I’m behind you, Mackering,” Rebecca whispered.

“Nooooo!” Shakespeare shouted.

Mackering whipped his head around just in time to see the dagger sink into the soft flesh of his throat. Rebecca drove the blade forward and twisted, felt it break through the soft bones that surround the windpipe. She pushed until it would go no farther. Mackering dropped his sword and stumbled forward, his hands around the hilt of the stylus, attempting to dislodge it from his neck. He moaned, gurgled blood. It spilled down his chest, coating the tips of his blond hair in scarlet. He convulsed, the green eyes twitching.

Shakespeare stood up and watched Mackering frantically trying to yank the dagger out. In a last desperate attempt, the uprightman reached behind his head and tried to push the blade out from the back end, succeeding only in impaling his injured hand on the dagger point.

Shakespeare walked over to Mackering, placed his hands on the uprightman’s chest and pushed him down.

“Good morrow,
Georgieboy,
” he said.

Mackering lay still at Shakespeare’s feet, the muddy, peagreen orbs now rolled back so only the whites were visible.

“Oh my God!” Rebecca groaned. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” She placed her hand over her mouth. “I’m going to be sick.”

Shakespeare quickly snatched up as many weapons as he could and said, “Through the wall!”

“I’m going to be sick!” Rebecca wailed.

Shakespeare pushed her down, shoved her through the wall. He followed, and once on the other side, watched her vomit.

“We must get home,” Shakespeare said.

“They’ll come for me!” Rebecca said, gasping. She dropped onto her stomach and clutched the wet earth. “They’ll charge me with murder—”

“Listen to me!” Shakespeare pulled her to her feet. She lost her balance, felt her head go black.

“Up, damn thee!” Shakespeare slapped her across the face. “Listen to me!”

“I’ll hang.” Rebecca sobbed. “I’ll hang, I’ll hang, I’ll hang—”

“No one will ever know!” Shakespeare said. “No one saw thee. No one saw me!”

She sucked in her breath, shuddered and retched. When the heave passed, she said in a small voice,

“Thou art certain?”

“Quite!” Shakespeare tried to bring Rebecca to her feet. “We must get home, Becca! Soon the roads will be clogged with people. Walk! I prithee, my love, walk! Walk for me!”

But her knees buckled.

Shakespeare hoisted her over his healthy shoulder and began to run. His breath was short, his legs weak.

“The dagger!” Rebecca suddenly screamed. “They’ll trace me through the dagger — it’s Benjamin’s! It has his initials on it. My God, Willy, what will I do?” She sobbed. “They’ll come for him, they’ll come for me. I’ll hang, I’ll hang, I’ll hang with my father!” Her body shook wildly, her arms flailed about.

“Stop fighting me, damn it!” Shakespeare screamed. He could no longer carry her. His injured arm was too weak, his shoulder too sore. His back gave out and he was forced to lower her to the ground. She dropped onto her stomach and writhed about like a snake in agony.

Shakespeare looped his hands under her arms and pulled her up.

“Becca, we’re covered in blood. We must keep going! We’ve got to get out of these clothes!”

“They’ll find me through the dagger!” she cried.

“I’ll go back and get it!” Shakespeare said. “But thou must go home now—”

“Don’t leave me!”

“Becca, listen—”

“Don’t leave me!” Rebecca screamed.

“Stow thee, damn it!”
Shakespeare screamed back and slapped her.

Rebecca reeled backward but quieted.

Blessed silence
. Shakespeare took a deep breath and withdrew the weapons from his belt. He held them up to the dawn’s light and said, “There is thy brother’s dagger… wait. I have two of them, in fact.”

“I brought two,” Rebecca said.

“Then I have them both… Here is thy brother’s sword. And here are all of my weapons, God be praised.”

Rebecca said nothing, listened to her panting breaths. She covered her mouth.

“Thou must…” Shakespeare exhaled and took another deep breath. “Thou must have killed Mackering with Mann’s dagger. Picture it, Rebecca. Mackering and Mann — the sinner and the redeemer — locked in a hand-to-hand combat to the death. Mann’s dagger aimed at Mackering’s throat. Mackering frees an arm and loops it around Mann’s body. At the same instant that Mann plunges his blade into Mackering’s neck, Mackering stabs Mann in the back. They killed each other, Becca! Repeat it! They killed each other!”

Rebecca looked at Shakespeare, confused.

“They killed
each other
! Say it!” Shakespeare commanded.

“They killed each other.”

“Yes. And no one will know differently,
if
no one sees us drenched in blood. Dawn is upon us. People are up. They will see us covered in blood, Becca. They will see my wounds.” Shakespeare stuffed the weapons back in his belt. “We’ve got to get to thy house.”

“Wounds?” Rebecca looked at Shakespeare and gasped. “My God, thy shoulder and arm—”

“These scratches are far from mortal inflictions, but they’re bloody,” Shakespeare said. “Even the most doltish watchmen would notice them. We’ve got to get
home,
Becca,
home
! We must burn these clothes. Give me thy hand. Canst thou walk now?”

“Aye.”

Shakespeare muttered “merciful God” and took her hand. They began the walk to the Lopez estate. A minute later they broke into a run and didn’t stop until they were at the gatehouse. Minutes later they stripped naked and bathed clean, their clothes turning to ashes in the Great Hall’s fireplace.

Mackering dead.

The news was shouted about Paul’s, spread from stall to stall at the Cheape.

Killed by a fanatic Puritan.

London’s sentiment: good riddance.

For many reasons Shakespeare and Rebecca felt it best if they lived apart. The Lopez estate had been besieged by gawkers and hecklers since Roderigo’s arrest. If just one person had seen them running away, connected them to Mackering’s murder, dire consequences would result. As much as Rebecca’s heart wanted him to stay, her wits warned her of what could happen if he remained at the Lopez manor house.

Tearfully they went their separate ways — during the day. Shakespeare went back to his closet, Rebecca visited him in the deepest hours of the night. She traveled alone, unguarded by her brother or cousins or Miguel, but she no longer felt the fear that once had plagued her solo treks. She’d become inured to nighttime shadows, apathetic to drunken laughter, to echoing shrieks. Armed with Miguel’s rapier, she knew she could defend herself, knew she must and would survive.

Shakespeare’s lovemaking was nourishment for her troubled soul, balm for muscles made tight from family obligations. Rebecca’s days were filled with endless demands, minute details, each one necessary for the plan to work. One couldn’t forget anything. Anything! But she would not complain — not to her lover, not even to herself. There was work to be done. Lots of work.

And so little time.

Shakespeare had put off the visit, his mind trying to think up the proper words. But they wouldn’t come. Finally, four days after Mackering’s death, he forced his feet into Margaret Whitman’s tenement. Harry’s story was not an easy tale to tell. Selecting his words carefully, Shakespeare recounted the story, awkwardly informing Margaret of all she needed to know but leaving out certain facts that he thought would upset her. Margaret’s reaction was strange. Though it had been her idea to find her husband’s murderer, she no longer appeared interested in his story or its bloody conclusion.

“It’s late,” was all she said.

Margaret had become old and bony, the skin underneath her chin hanging like a turkey wattle. Her eyes were as dull as scratched glass. Her hands held red, raw fingers, her knuckles were misshapen nodes. Shakespeare took her hand and kissed the dry, scaly skin. He asked if there were anything else she wanted to know, and Margaret shook her head.

“Then I’ll be going,” Shakespeare responded.

As he stood to leave, Margaret called his name.

“Aye?” Shakespeare answered.

“Times have been good to you, Willy?” she asked.

“I’ve been well,” he responded.

She paused, looked down at her feet. “Have you any spare coins, then?”

Without speaking, Shakespeare handed her a sovereign.

She didn’t bother to thank him as she closed the door behind him.

Returning to his closet, he felt melancholy. He lit a fire and gazed out of his window, hoping he might see Rebecca. Though charcoal skies had hooded Londontown, it was too early for her to visit. A nightingale began her sweet song, the composition immediately plagiarized by a mockingbird. Shakespeare’s eyes fixed on the empty street below. Life was a black page written in invisible ink, a tale all told, just waiting to be deciphered. He thought of Harry, of his unrestrained drunken laughter, of his weeping — sad melodies intoned by a righteous man who had never fulfilled his earthly dreams.

Shakespeare peered out the window for over an hour, then lay upon his pallet and closed his eyes.

Dreams haunted his wits. Disturbing reveries made suddenly sweet by a mellifluous voice from Heaven singing him words of gratitude.

Sweet dreams, my friend. Sweet dreams and may God bless
.

He slept in peace.

Shakespeare arose the next morning at dawn, fresh and whole, but lonely. There had been no shadows, no nightmares, but no Rebecca either. Diamonds of sunlight dappled the rushes of his floor. He dressed quickly and set out to the Lopez house, hoping her absence wasn’t an evil portent.