“I think it’s better to have a man as your enemy than a ghost.”
“Much better.” Shakespeare turned to Rebecca and embraced her with relief. “How fares your head?”
“It aches still, but it’s better. Your posset was very soothing.”
“Good.”
“A fiendish wight is your man of black,” Rebecca said, snuggling in his arms. “Reconsidering, perhaps a specter would be more fallible a foe. The ghost merely tried to warn you. This man desires to murder you.”
Shakespeare gripped the handle of the dagger until his knuckles turned white. “Ah, but this man—made of piss and blood—can be murdered as well.”
“Hug me tightly,” Rebecca suddenly begged of Shakespeare. “I feel as if I’m going to fall.”
He placed the dagger on the ground and embraced her.
“I’m so frightened,” she said.
“He’s gone.”
“What if he comes back?”
“You’ll not be here. He wants nothing of you. He doesn’t even know who you are.”
“And yourself?”
“Aye. He’ll come back for me. I’ll be prepared.”
“I pray you, William, leave the city.”
Shakespeare said nothing.
“If not for your own welfare, do it for those who care about you,” Rebecca said. “Make not a widow of your wife, don’t leave your children fatherless.”
Rebecca began to cry. “I was made a widow…of sorts. If I were your wife…I would weep sorely for your death…. I’m so confused….”
Shakespeare gently rocked her in his arms.
“Nothing will happen to me,” he said.
“Swear it.”
“I swear it.”
“I’m so scared.”
“He’s gone.”
“I feel so alive in your arms. Even as I cry, I feel your strength. Hold me forever.”
“Twould be my heaven.”
“Kiss me,” Rebecca whispered.
He did.
Chapter 23
The illusion of youth fell upon Shakespeare like a dazzling ray of sunlight. He was giddy, silly, as prankish as an errant schoolboy. His senses were heightened to extremes, smelling perfume wherever he walked, hearing sweet music in the cacophony of street songs. Never had food tasted so luscious. His fingertips no longer touched, but instead caressed everything within their grasp. Gods, what a glory was love!
He hadn’t expected it. Yes, Rebecca was exquisite, her kisses as sweet as nectar. But after all was done, he had wanted to forget about her and concentrate on finding peace for Harry’s soul. Aye, maybe he’d call upon her once or twice…or trice. But that was all the distraction he had meant to allow himself. Meant. But fate had deemed it otherwise.
Shakespeare had decided to visit her the day after the attack, convincing himself that he’d only wanted to see how she was faring. He stood outside her father’s estate, waiting for her to emerge, not daring to enter the grounds. What could he say to her father that would explain his presence? I’m the man in whose company your daughter had become sorely whittled. Or I’m William Shakespeare, a man enthralled with your daughter. Though I be married with three children and without means of support at the moment, I am nonetheless a trustworthy fellow.
No, he could not come to the door. So he waited, hidden in the brush at the side of the gatehouse.
Lopez’s house was built with one central tower dividing two rectangular buildings of stone. The left wall of the manor was partially covered by a scaffold, the men upon it constructing a chimney. Judging by the arch of the windows, the house seemed to be about forty years old—built at the start of the Queen’s reign.
Large for a doctor’s home—even if the doctor was the Queen’s physician. Lopez undoubtedly had found favor in Her Majesty’s eyes or had money from other means.
Shakespeare waited and waited, but Rebecca never came out. He left his post at dusk, not so much tired as extremely disappointed. It was as if she were dangling him on purpose.
The devil with her!
The next day he tried unsuccessfully to write in the morning. By noon he was in front of her house again. By nightfall he returned home a discouraged man.
The following morrow he was at his watch at dawn, hoping that she’d at least leave the manor to stroll the outside grounds. At last his patience was rewarded. But she was with a man—a handsome gentleman, though his face seemed brittle with anger. He stood slightly taller than she.
Her betrothed, no doubt.
Jealousy gripped his body like a cramp. Then he suddenly panicked. How could he justify his being there to her…to him?
He crouched behind a tree until they passed the gatehouse. Carefully he shadowed them into town.
They started by visiting the stalls at the Cheape. Rebecca carefully eyed the crafted goods displayed; the man carelessly picked them up and tossed them aside without a glance. He seemed bored and irritated. Rebecca ignored him and spent the next fifteen minutes in front of a broom stall. They began to argue and five minutes later the man left in a huff.
Rebecca seemed relieved.
Shakespeare watched her as she examined the rushes of the broom, the wood of the handle. It was as if she were evaluating a crown jewel. Even the monger became impatient. Buy or begone was his look. But she went about her business and overlooked his hostile stares.
Go up to her, Shakespeare told himself. But his legs felt wobbly. Inhaling deeply, he forced himself to proceed as Shakespeare the actor. He feigned an air of casualness and waited until she noticed him first. When she did, she broke into a glittering smile and held out her hands to him. He grabbed them, squeezing them gently. They were velvet. He was a cloud, she the wind. Poof and she’d blow him away.
“I was about to call upon you after I’d finished my errands,” Rebecca said.
“Really?”
“Aye.” She lowered her head. “I behaved in an unseemly, ill-bred manner the last time we met—”
“Not at all.”
“But I did.”
Pain pinched Shakespeare’s heart. She was apologizing for her intimacy with him. He thought back to the evening of the madman’s attack. She had been his newborn fawn, lithe and sleek, trembling with fear, her eyes wide and innocent, beseeching him for guidance and comfort. Her cheeks had been as smooth as windswept sand, marred only by narrow tracks of tears. After he had kissed and hugged her a thousand times, assured her they were both safe, he had walked her home. He’d honored her request and hadn’t accompanied her past the gatehouse.
Those kisses, those embraces. For three days Shakespeare had clung to them. Had they meant nothing at all to her?
He said, “That night was unseemly strange.”
“That it was.” Rebecca shuddered. “Have you found out—”
“Who the villain was?” he interrupted. “No.”
“Has he molested you again?”
Without thinking, Shakespeare glanced over his shoulder. “No,” he said.
“Are you frightened?” she asked, then added, “Of course you aren’t. You weren’t frightened that night, were you?”
“I was worried about you.”
“But not about yourself.”
Shakespeare smiled and said, “I was concerned about my own neck as well.”
“Tis a wonderful neck,” Rebecca said. “It holds a marvelous head.”
“Aye, a strong neck I have. Yet it is neither as long nor graceful as thine—” He corrected himself. “As yours. As far as the head is concerned, I’ve been told I have a head for words, yet not much of one for numbers and none for science and languages, as you have. So as far as heads go, you are heads above me. Which explains why your neck is longer than mine.”
Rebecca stared at him, then laughed. Shakespeare laughed as well.
“I’m a brook,” he said. “I wander without direction and babble greatly.”
“Is it yer intention to buy the broom, m’lady?” interrupted the broom mong
er irritatedly.
Rebecca dropped Shakespeare’s hands and picked up a broom. She said, “The rushes are loosely bound together, my goodfellow, and the wood of the handle is already warped. I fully intend to buy a broom, but I want one that won’t fall apart in a fortnight.”
The monger curled his lip into a sneer.
Rebecca stopped him before he let out his string of insults. “Are you going to defend poorly crafted items or are you going to let me see what you’ve hidden in the back of the stall only to be shown to those who are particular enough to ask?”
With a grunt, the broom monger reached under a black piece of cloth hung over the right side of his stall and pulled out another broom.
“It be costing you more,” he grumbled.
“Nonsense,” Rebecca said, examining the broom and finding it to her liking. “What you’ve displayed isn’t good for anything but kindling. I’ll pay you a tuppence for this broom, however, and not a penny more.”
“Get out of here,” the broom monger grumped.
“Very well,” Rebecca said. She handed him the broom and turned her back.
“Four pence,” the broom monger yelled out.
“I said not a penny more,” Rebecca said.
The broom monger swore, then said, “A deal.”
Rebecca dropped the coin in an open palm and grabbed the broom. She and Shakespeare walked about two hundred feet in silence, then he said, “Wonderfully executed.”
“It’s in my blood,” she said, then gasped. How could she have said that! Did she have suet for brains?
“What is it?” Shakespeare asked.
Calm, she told herself. He thinks you mean it metaphorically. She said, “Nothing…Nothing at all. It’s just that…that I forgot, uh…when I was supposed to meet my brother. I can’t remember whether he said ten or eleven of the clock.”
“Your brother was the gentleman who accompanied you into town?” Shakespeare asked.
“Aye,” Rebecca said. She fixed her eyes upon him. Then he realized his error and turned red.
“Been following me, Willy?” she said playfully.
“I feel like an ass.” He paused, then said, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
“Have you tried?” Rebecca asked.
“Lord knows I’ve tried,” Shakespeare answered.
Rebecca looked perturbed.
“You’re interfering with my writings,” he explained. “I think of you and can only write love sonnets. I’m supposed to be writing about hapless Lucrece.”
“Recite me one of your love sonnets,” she said suddenly.
“Now?”
“Aye.”
“Here?”
“Yes. Oh, do it.”
He felt his face go hot.
Rebecca poked him in the ribs gently. “Your written words may be sweet, but your tongue is false. You haven’t written any poems in my honor.”
“But I have,” he said. “I’ve written thousands of them in my marvelous brain…just not on parchment.”
“So if thoughts of love for me clog your head like an overstocked pond, fish one out for my pleasure.”
“Now?” he repeated.
“Yes! Now! This second!” She slipped her arm into his. “Do dedicate soft words to me. Or does it embarrass you when they come from your mouth instead of your quill?”
“One can only describe perfection with perfection. What I say would be too crude for thine…for your ears.”
“Tell me a poem and then thou may thou me.”
Dear Almighty, he thought, thou art a bookwriter! Improvise! He cleared his throat and said,
“Tempest beats its fury fierce
Upon my hapless soul.
With angry waves it doth pierce
and fill my blackest hole.
Woe desperation! It is vast, my loneliness so deep.
In endless night I am cast,
Shadowed head to feet
Yet thy love lights me as glowing ember…”
He paused a moment, then thought the devil with it. He recited,
“Pray, play thy fingers upon my member.”
Rebecca stared at him, then burst into laughter.
“At least thou spokest from the heart,” she said. “Or another part of thy anatomy.”
“It was all I could think of on such short notice,” he said. “The next time I see thee, I’ll come with more polished words.”
She stopped walking and frowned. He felt his stomach churn.
“I can’t see you?” he asked.
“You?” she said.
“You…Thee…Can I see thee again?”
She slowly nodded. He exhaled with relief.
“I…” She hesitated. “I don’t know where we can meet.”
“Why not the city?”
“I’m not allowed to come here unaccompanied.”
“But thy brother left thee alone.” Shakespeare felt sudden anger. “Why did he do that? It’s dangerous for thee to be roaming the street without male protection.”
“He’s in an extremely foul mood,” Rebecca said. “He received a letter from his former mistress—some scheming woman of imaginary title. It seems she just ran off and married some very old but wealthy Venetian nobleman. Benjamin comforts himself by saying the man is very close to death and he will again have his savvy mistress in his bed shortly.” She paused, then said, “My brother is a fool.”
Shakespeare didn’t care a groat about her brother. He said, “Where can I see thee then?”
“Not in the city, not at my house either.”
“Then where?” Shakespeare said.
“Not in the city,” she repeated. “Not at my house…during the daylight.”
Shakespeare smiled.
“Come at night. Throw something soft upon my window. Second story, left side, third one from the tower in the back of the house. I’ll meet thee outside.”
“By thy will, mistress. When may I come to thee?”
“Is tonight too soon?”
“Tonight shall be an eternity,” he said.
“Beware of the guards that roam the grounds, Willy.”
He nodded. Rebecca gently kissed his lips. Shakespeare grabbed her and mashed his mouth against hers. A mangy street boy hooted. Rebecca pulled away, laughing as she swatted her broom in the boy’s direction.
Shakespeare came and tapped upon Rebecca’s window that very evening. They met nightly for three weeks. Then they were caught.
Chapter 24
Standing in the Ames’s rose garden, Nan, the chambermaid, was shocked by de Andrada’s rapid deterioration. In a month’s time señor’s eyes had become dull, his face slack with weight loss. He was out of breath, his muscles barely able to hoist him over the estate wall. He tumbled to the ground, rested a few minutes, then stood up and dragged his withered frame over to her.
“Dear Lord,” Nan cried, touching her cheek. “What do those heretics do to you?”
“Too cruel…” de Andrada gasped out. “Too cruel for your ears, goodwoman.”
“You poor man,” she said. “I was so worried that you’d not come for our weekly prayer reading. Oh, señor, how much you need the Lord’s help in a time of such destitution!”
De Andrada hung his head low and sighed deeply.
Nan swallowed back tears, straightened her spine and regained her composure. “We mustn’t dawdle, señor,” she said. “The family is gone for the day, but the hours pass quickly when the mind is steeped in the words of our Lord. Come this way. There are victuals for you in the kitchen. Afterward, we’ll begin to work toward our salvation.”
“Why do you pray for me?” de Andrada asked. He’d recovered his wind but feigned a weakened voice. “I don’t deserve such a goddess to speak on my behalf.”
“They starve you, those blasted dogs!” She hissed as she spoke. “Christian kindness shall not tolerate such atrocities. I know what they think of God.” She lifted her eyes to the heavens and clasped her hands. “Most merci
ful Jesu, forgive me for my lack of compassion, but may they burn in Hell for refusing Thee as king!”
She returned her attention to de Andrada.
“They think I have not ears, but I do indeed hear. Sir George and Sir Thomas muttering their heretical prayers! And I know for fact that Lady Grace—Sir Dunstan’s wife—brought not her lastest bairn for holy baptism.”
“No!” exclaimed de Andrada.
“Aye, tis true.” Nan leaned over and whispered, “And I have eyes as well, señor. I’ve seen their hidden horns nestled in their hair.”
“Aye?”
“Aye. It’s in the blood! All of those born of an unbaptized womb grow horns.”
De Andrada felt the crown of his head, then quickly withdrew his hand.
“My goodwoman,” he croaked out. “Dr. Lopez would never be so overt as to starve me in front of open eyes. Nay, he’s much too clever a schemer for that.”
“Then how is it that you grow so wretched week to week?” asked Nan.
De Andrada clenched his neck. “The doctor tries to poison me.”
The maid gasped.
“Tis the reason for the pathetic state of my body,” he said.
“My Lord, señor. Lopez is more devil than man!” Nan exclaimed. “But let God execute judgment on him. Come, come, señor. To the kitchen.”
She grabbed his hand. De Andrada went cold at her touch—her bony hand scaly and dry. But he smiled at the sour woman as if she were a madonna.
“My angel,” he whispered.
“This way.”
Nan led him to the door of the kitchen.
Inside the air was hot and heavy and smelled of flesh and fat. Droplets of grease sprang from sizzling pans and boiling caldrons, a gray rolling fog of steam and soot hovering over the room. The master cook was an obese man of forty named Wort. His face was red and doughy, his nose oversized and dotted with black pores. He wore a tall white hat now limp with moisture, a white apron, and chose to cook without the hindrance of sleeves. His bare arms were as wide as hamhocks, hairy and coated with a layer of oil and sweat. He dropped a chicken into a pot of bubbling water, then cursed his helper, a boy of twelve.
The Quality of Mercy Page 26
