The Quality of Mercy (9 page)

A secret Catholic. Yet Harry had left Brithall alive and well. Or so had said Viscount Henley. Shakespeare had spoken to Henley briefly as they strolled the Brithall’s formal gardens. Shakespeare had asked the lord as many questions as manners would allow, but Henley knew nothing about Harry’s murder. Shakespeare hadn’t broached the subject of the priest. It hadn’t seemed necessary. By the time Shakespeare had departed from Brithall, he was satisfied that Henley had nothing to do with his kinsman’s death.

Perhaps the murder was as reported. Harry’d been victimized by the scurrilous highwayman and dumped in the sheep’s pen. But perhaps someone — a secret member of some anti-Papist guild — had found out about Harry’s Catholic sentiments, stalked him, and had taken his life in the open countryside, away from alert eyes.

Guesswork.

Endless hours of riding, endless hours of nothing.

The sun was bowing low, readying itself for final exit. Clouds were coalescing into thick gray foam. The ground had become wetter; sparse shrubbery had thickened into wooded copses of cotton grass and bilberry bushes and newly budded gnarled oak.

Shakespeare realized he was famished. Another night under a coverlet of stars. He found a pocket of fresh water, not much bigger than a puddle but enough to satisfy the thirst of a tired animal. After the horse had drunk his fill, Shakespeare dismounted and tied him to a tree. The winds were gentle, redolent with the pungent aroma of fermenting bilberries. He opened up his leather bag and pulled out a slab of ham, eating it in three bites. His supper was followed by sips of ale from his drinking gourd and fresh bilberries. He lay undisturbed except for the occasional scurry of fleeing woodland creatures — red deer, grouse, squirrel, hedgehogs. The thought of fresh game aroused his belly — meat crackling over an open fire. A lover of hunting, he reminisced of his days as a boy, hare coursing… deer poaching. Though plagued with an unsatisfied stomach, he drifted off to sleep.

Shakespeare was awakened by trampling in the brush. Clay-cold and rigid, his clothes damp with morning dew, he opened his eyes but didn’t move. Dawn was waging battle against a metallic sky. He reached for his falchion, grasping the handle tightly, and waited.

Sounds of footsteps. He sprung upward. A startled gasp and a shower of bilberries. Then he saw her.

She was a plump girl, no more than sixteen, with dark, loose hair and alabaster skin — a perfect white except for smidges of rosy pink on her nose and cheeks. Some of her front teeth were missing.

“Ho, wench,” Shakespeare said. “What are you doing here alone at this hour?”

The girl cowered in the brush, fear etched in her black eyes.

“Met your lover, did you?” Shakespeare said.

She said nothing. Just quivered in the bushes. An idiot to be sure, he thought.

“Be gone,” he said testily.

She didn’t move. It was then that he noticed the empty basket stained a deep plum. He bent down, picked it up and tossed it over. It hit her on the left leg, but she didn’t react.

“Picking berries, were you?”

Nothing.

“Go on,” he said. “I’ll not be bothering you.”

She smiled. Despite the toothless gaps, she was pretty. Shakespeare felt a tug under his breeches.

“Off with you,” he said. “Lest you be enticing the man to act the animal.”

She smiled again and hiked up her skirt.

Dumb, he thought. But not deaf.

She was as warm as fresh milk, as sweet as cream and as soft as butter.

She was also not a mute. As she lay, nestled in his arms, she told him her story.

She was the bastard daughter of a whore, orphaned at eleven when her mother died of sweating sickness. Left destitute, she continued her mother’s profession of providing aid and comfort to the village men. A year ago, six months pregnant, she’d been inflicted with ague. The baby had died in her belly. Vividly she described to him her fits and fevers, her bloody vomit and stools.

But somehow she had survived, nursed her ills with poppy water, the juice of red nettles, juniper berries, and flat ale with dragon water. She was still weak, she claimed, but at least she was alive. And yes, she was still a punk servicing the local men as well as the foreigner. She lived in a village not far away from this spot.

When she wasn’t whoring, she was busy in her still room, preparing remedies and potions. Rising early, three or four in the morn, she’d come to the heather moors to pick bilberries and herbs for her medicines. They were well received throughout the countryside, and often in the plague-infested summertimes, her special mixtures made her more money than her stewing. The only thing that worried her was talk that she was a witch.

Nay, tis not so,
she had said.
Simply flapping tongues of the gossip mongers
.

As she told her tale, her hands moved over Shakespeare’s body, reawakening his lust once again. He stroked her pillowy thighs, parted them and boarded her. Afterward he offered her money, but she had refused.

Your kindness, good sir. Tis ’nough
.

He stood up and brushed dirt off his hose.

“Where is your village?” he asked.

“Yonder,” she said, pointing to her left.

“Will you accompany me there?”

She smiled. “Me whorin’ is free, but me guidin’ will be costin’ ye.”

“A survivor you are.”

“Aye. Ten shillings.”

Shakespeare gasped. “That’s robbery!”

The toothless smile widened to a grin.

“Ifin it be too much, you be findin’ it yourself.”

“Blood of a Jew, you have,” Shakespeare said. “I shall simply wait for you to return, idiotic wench. Then I shall follow you.”

“Aye, and wait all of the day for me to pick me herbs. Whatever pleases you, sir.”

Again the smile. It had become venal.

“A penny’s more the cost,” he said.

“You insult me, sir. Five shillings.”

“A penny.”

“A shilling.”

“Tuppence.”

“A sixpence.”

“A tuppence,” Shakespeare repeated. He mounted his steed. “Keep kicking a jade, wench, and you’ll have a dead horse at your feet.”

“A tuppence it is,” she said, hopping up behind him.

Her knowledge of the terrain was flawless, her senses keen, her skills swift. A large ground squirrel darted in front of their pathway. A moment later it lay dead, impaled to the ground, her dagger through its belly. She dismounted his horse, pulled out the knife and flung the bloodied carcass over her shoulder.

The animal would give her money and food for the week, she explained.

“I shall keep the meat for me meals, sir. The innards will be stuffed with rye and oats, boiled, sliced, then sold to the Fishhead to be eaten cold. The pelt and tail will be a hat, the spleen and liver will be roasted in an open pit and sold at the marketplace, the blood will be mixed with ale and sold to the apothecary as a remedy for virility problems. The brains, heart, lungs, and kidneys shall be minced and made into pies. The teeth shall be ground into powder and mixed with cinnamon and mint. When stirred with warm ale and a teaspoon of dragon water, tis good for the brain.”

“What about the eyes?” Shakespeare asked.

“Pickled in vinegar,” she answered. “When swallowed whole, they are also good for the brain.”

He thought about that along the way — a supper of pickled eyes.

The burg of Hemsdale was under the jurisdiction of Henton Hall. It was a poor town eroded by bitter cold and strong winds. The first houses that came into view were built from clay, colored red, white, or blue, and ceiled with straw, reeds, and mud. Little protection from the rain, Shakespeare thought.

As they reached the main thoroughfare, the hamlet awoke from its dormancy. Here were the townspeople busy with activity — wives and daughters buying fruits from the costermongers, or red, fresh beef from the butchers. Laborers and citizens staggered out of red-sashed taverns, children chased one another. There were the merchants shouting from the windows of their houses, “What de ye lack, today?” trying to ensnare buyers to purchase their wares. Aproned men pushing carts loaded with edibles sang out their selections — fresh cucumbers or melons, oatbread and barley cakes, and sweet marchpane and comfits. A lute player strummed out a tune as maidens giggled and danced. Shakespeare dismounted and led the whore and his horse through the tumult. Not as festive as Paul’s, but the noise did seem to liven up the weary little village.

He stopped to buy a pear. A big one. He bit into the skin and let the sweet juices dribble down his chin, then wiped them up using his sleeve. As he chewed, his thoughts turned back to Harry, until he was interrupted by a hoarse voice.

“Ye shall burn in hell lest ye repent for your wicked ways.”

Shakespeare turned around and saw hard, black eyes. A blasted Puritan as bleak in character as he was in dress. Serious and sour, glutted with scorn. His voice was raw, his features small and pinched. He held out an ungloved hand — red as if burnt by fire. He pointed a gnarled finger at Shakespeare and said,

“Taker of the flesh of a whore. Repent before it’s too late!”

Shakespeare and the whore said nothing.

“Repent!” he shouted with urgency in his voice. “You must repent!”

Shakespeare raised his eyebrows. “Why must you wear black all the time? Surely the Lord didn’t create colors to be disregarded as such.”

“Colors are sinful!” he blasted out. “They cause the eye to see false beauty.” He curled his finger into his fist and shook it at them. “Only repentance can bring pure truth, pure beauty. Look around.” The Puritan swept his arm across the town. “All is filled with the Devil’s biding. Satanic mummeries held not more than a week ago. Spring is here and soon our souls shall be assaulted once again by hedonistic orgies and rituals.”

“Beg your pardon, sir?” Shakespeare asked.

“Poles bedecked with flowers — icons of paganism.”

“He means the maypole,” the whore said.

“Such pastime is merely amusement,” Shakespeare said. “Frivolous, but not unseemly godless.”

The Puritan’s eyes burned with fury.

“Frivolity is the Devil’s meat. Thou must repent, sinner! Rid thyself of all foul beasts,
that
foul beast.” Out came the finger. He pointed to the whore, and she smiled at him.

“Filth,” his raspy voice uttered. He pulled a hood atop his head.

Shakespeare rolled his eyes and led the horse around him. “I thank you for your counsel, good sir.”

“Ye still have time to repent, sinner,” said the Puritan. “Repent! Repent, I say! Before the gloaming! Before it’s too late!”

On the outskirts of town lay the bigger, wooden houses. Four of them. He asked her who lived there.

“The first one over there with gardens, that belongs to Alderman Fottingham,” she replied. “He’s one of me best sporters. The two over there belongs to citizens — one’s a merchant, the other an apothecary. The biggest house — other than Henton — belongs to a yeoman.”

“Where is Henton House?” Shakespeare asked.

“Twenty minutes out that way,” she said, pointing her finger.

“Is the Earl of Henton in residence?”

“I know not, sir.”

“Do you know if Fottingham is home?” Shakespeare asked.

“No, sir.”

Shakespeare stopped the horse in front of the alderman’s house and then helped her down.

“This is as far as I take you.”

She nodded and gave him a small curtsy.

Clearing his throat, he asked, “Is it your habit to entertain the stranger?”

“Ifin he can pay, tis all well with me.”

“Have you had occasion to see a man here maybe three weeks ago? His name was Henry Whitman.”

“I know not the name.”

“Tall fellow, thick brown curls and a woolly brown beard. Full of muscle and grit.”

“He sounds like a bear.”

“Aye, a bear he was. Deep voice that carried like the roar of thunder.”

His own voice had become loud and dramatic. She smiled.

“And hands as big as mutton chops,” he went on. “And eyes as wide as the Channel and as dark as a witch’s hat. And he loved to attack pretty little maidens,” he added, tickling her ribs.

She burst into laughter. He hooked his arms around her waist and spun her around in the air.

“Seen him, you have?” he asked.

She shook her head no.

“He never crossed your bed.”

“Sorry, no.”

Shakespeare sighed and put her down. “Who was the Puritan who accosted me on the road?”

“That’d be Edward Mann. He’s a bit mad in the head. He’s been married three times; and all three times his wives died in childbirth. He claims he’s possessed, a witch has cast a spell on him and the spell won’t be lifted unless all of England repents.”

“Had he ever had dealings with a witch?” Shakespeare asked.

The strumpet grinned wickedly and whispered, “I know not a witch exactly, sir, but mayhap I said an evil word or two about him.” Her eyes widened with sudden fright. “You’ll not be telling anyone what I said, eh?”

“No.”

“Good.” She leaned over and kissed his cheeks. “Me coins, now.”

“Many thanks for your help, little one.” He slapped coins into her palm and pinched her bottom. She gave him a coy, closed-lip smile and skipped away.

Food before conversation, the portly alderman had insisted. Talk grows irksome on an empty stomach. Fottingham was a man of good height but even more impressive girth. But his smile was welcoming, his voice cheerful, his blue eyes clear and friendly. His servants brought out plates of boiled beef, rabbit, grouse, quail, and venison. The meat was hot and fresh, and Shakespeare ate until his doublet bulged uncomfortably. After the trenchers had been cleared, Fottingham gathered up his fur-trimmed black robe, stood and stretched. Lumbering over to the hearth, he snatched two tankards from the mantel and filled them with ale. He gave one to Shakespeare, then settled back into his chair.

Shakespeare sipped the foam contentedly. The room was cool but dry, the floors covered with fresh straw, the plastered walls adorned with painted cloth. The windows were open, and a healthy wind stirred up air that had been thick with the smell of grease.