The man said, “‘Man and a blindfold.’ What a scene! As bonny as any you’ve ever performed on the platform.” He threw a chair in Shakespeare’s direction. “Sit.”
Shakespeare uprighted the chair with his foot and sat down, keeping his eyes fixed upon the rapier. The man stroked his naked chin, then sauntered over to Shakespeare and stood in front of him, his body heavy with bulging muscles. He drew a poniard from his jerkin and said,
“You’re a damned nuisance.”
Shakespeare said nothing.
“I’ve tried to ignore you, but you’re a persistent bugger. You’d try the patience of the Savior.” He grazed the tip of the stylus across Shakespeare’s throat. “Where’d you hide my money?”
“Tell me about Harry Whitman, Mackering.”
Mackering said, “Obviously you still delude yourself that you have power over me.”
Shakespeare looked upward, saw those evil eyes. He said, “Power, not a whit. Money…”
The gray-green orbs compressed to steely balls. “Where are my bits?”
Shakespeare said, “Tell me about Harry.”
Mackering brought the blade against the bob of Shakespeare’s throat. He said, “Who is this man, Harry, that he is so important to you?”
“He was my friend,” Shakespeare whispered. “I mean to find out who murdered him.”
“So you are Harry’s avenging angel, eh?” Mackering said. “Not in much of a position to avenge.”
“Did you kill Harry?” Shakespeare asked.
Mackering gave off a low sinister laugh. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t.” He flicked the blade against Shakespeare’s face and shaved him in three deft strokes. Gliding his fingers across Shakespeare’s jawline, Mackering chucked his chin, then soundly slapped Shakespeare’s newly shaved cheeks.
“Were I, my good man, at this moment of the inclination, I’d say you look good enough to eat.”
Shakespeare said, “Though the skin is smooth, the flesh is poisonous.”
Mackering widened his eyes and brought his hand to his chest. “A remark of intimidation,” he said. “I quake.”
“An honest caveat, Mackering. I’ve partaken of the flesh you sell on the streets. Some of your doxies serve good meat, others only Winchester geese.”
Mackering’s face darkened. “I’ve had all my doxies inside and out and found them clean. Which have you found infected?”
“All your doxies seem as one in the dark—foul breath, stringy meat, and sloppy, wet holes.”
Mackering laughed. He picked up his dagger and one by one sliced off the buttons of Shakespeare’s shirt. The open garment revealed a pink wedge of bare chest.
“You bluff poorly, Willyboy.” Mackering parted the shirt with his dagger, then ran the tip of his blade around Shakespeare’s nipple. “You lie in your throat as I do stand.” He grinned, brought the dagger down to Shakespeare’s round hose and cut the string of a point. “I’d say you are very much free from the King’s Evil. But for the sake of clever talk, assume you speak the truth. That maybe you are infected. I’m a gambler. I enjoy taking risks.”
There was a series of long and short knocks at the door. Mackering snapped his fingers.
“I’d almost forgotten,” he said. “Our playtime shall have to be temporarily postponed.” He gently drew the stylus across Shakespeare’s chest. Immediately a thin line of red appeared.
“Come in, come in,” Mackering shouted.
In walked Giant, Little Dickie, Patch, Pigsfeet, Picker, two knaves he’d never seen, Mary Biddle, and the young girl with the wide eyes.
“Ah,” said Mackering. “Arrives the entertainment in your honor, Shakespeare. Giant, move the player against the wall.”
The ogre picked up the chair with Shakespeare in it and placed him at the far side of the chamber.
“Good, good!” Mackering grinned. “Let me introduce you, Willyboy, to a very small part of my merry family. Little Dickie, Picker, Patch, Pigsfeet, and Mary you undoubtedly know. This young wench with the moon-shaped eyes is called Angel. Maybe you remember her. She ministered you with poppy syrup.”
Shakespeare vaguely recalled the face, the eyes staring at him as he fell into a fuzzy sleep.
Mackering went on with the introductions. “These two honored men, coves most beneship, call themselves Hamor Lowe and Christopher Mudd. They, more than I, were the last ones to see your Harry alive. They diced with him extensively and found him a most amenable gull.” Mackering laughed. “And what a coney he was! Very greedy. And greedy men are big losers. A pity about his death, and I mean that sincerely, sweet man. Who am I to kill Harry? He was the perfect stooge, feeding my coffers most generously.”
Mackering laughed again.
“Enough about Harry,” he said. “He’s as stiff as a starched ruff and is of no consequence.” He clasped his hands together. “My dear coves, get ye down and see what our fair and able-bodied wenches have planned to make our night most merry.”
Mary Biddle regarded Mackering with hatred. Angel’s eyes darted between Mary’s and Mackering’s. Slowly, she clenched her fists.
Mackering slapped Shakespeare on the back and sat next to him. Giant stood at his master’s side, the rest of the men sat at the uprightman’s feet.
“Two bonny stews,” Mackering began. “I have fucked them both and found them lacking nothing—spirited young morts, they are. But alas, I have arrived on hard times, as some unknown wight has been filching my money.” He mussed Shakespeare’s hair. “Now what kind of jack would steal from me?”
“A jackass,” shouted Hamor Lowe.
The men laughed, Shakespeare didn’t move. He was frightened, but not as scared as the girls. They seemed terrified.
Mackering said, “Anyway, my dearth of funds has allotted me only enough food to feed but one of these fine wenches. And I dare say that having two women around is not a good situation. Each one competes for my attention and I find that bothersome. So, which one shall be strong enough to remain, my goodmen? Wager, if you will. Though Angel is younger, still full of piss and vinegar, I’ll place my money on Mary, as the Devil has made her as mean as a harpy.”
Something horrible was going to happen. Shakespeare felt it. Though his mind was confused, laden with feelings of dread, the knaves acted as if this were a common event. They were clamoring at one another, shouting odds, throwing coins into a pile. Picker licked his lips, farted, and sat back with a grin on his face. Patch removed his eye covering to get a better view. As Shakespeare thought, the newly exposed eye, though a bit smaller than its unshielded mate, was healthy.
Mackering said, “Willyboy, you may wager if you’d like. Borrow my coins! An honest man you are! You’ll make good on your bets.”
Shakespeare didn’t answer.
“Bah,” Mackering said. “Remain as sour as a Puritan.” He raised his sword. “To the better girl—the most bene mort.”
The cheering began as Mary and Angel began to circle each other. Mary struck first, grabbing Angel’s skirt. In response, Angel attempted to yank it out of Mary’s hands and a tug of war ensued. A moment later the skirt tore from Angel’s bodice, exposing her chemise and stocking-covered legs. Ripped skirt in hand, Mary stumbled backward and fell on her backside.
The men hooted and cheered. New odds were announced, more coins piled onto the floor.
Angel charged, fell atop Mary and straddled her supine body, holding down Mary’s arms with her left hand while ripping Mary’s bodice with her right. Within seconds the bodice was rent to shreds and Mary’s breasts popped out. Angel clawed at the naked skin, raking deep gouges into Mary’s chest. Mary screamed, managed to free a hand and jabbed a finger in Angel’s eye.
The men cheered Mary’s spirit.
Angel covered her throbbing orb, leaving opportunity for Mary’s attack. She dug clawish fingernails into Angel’s cheek and grated the younger girl’s face as if she were skinning roots. Angel shrieked and tried desperately to protect her wounded face. Mary bucked
upward and threw Angel off her stomach. Still on the floor, the women grabbed each other in hostile embrace and rolled along the floor, the rushes flying about as they kicked, bit and scratched.
Nauseated, Shakespeare looked at Mackering, the uprightman eyes gleaming with pleasure.
Caligula. These were his gladiators.
Mackering noticed Shakespeare’s eyes upon him and his lips formed a smile. He said,
“Better than bear baiting, aye?”
Shakespeare didn’t answer.
Burn in Hell.
Shakespeare returned his attention to the women. Both were on their feet, naked, their flesh bathed in crimson. From Angel’s nose oozed plugs of red mucus; Mary’s chest had become two lumps of meaty pulp.
Foul toad.
The women panted and stared at each other. Again it was Mary who attacked, her fingers arched into talons. The deadly nails sprang forward and pierced deep into Angel’s throat. Mary screamed, then yanked her claws from Angel’s windpipe, exposing the young girl’s neck-turned-sieve squirting rills of blood. Angel clutched her throat, fell to the ground and gurgled out cries for mercy.
Mary looked at Mackering.
The master turned his head upward to Giant. “Hold Angel upright,” he commanded.
The enormous ogre went over to Angel, writhing in the now crimson-stained rushes. He hoisted the near-dead girl to her feet and held her soundly. Mackering took out his dagger and flicked his wrist with utmost calm. The blade landed right in the center of Angel’s heart. The girl gave a sudden jerk. Her eyes rolled upward and her lids fluttered. Then she lay completely slack—lifeless yet still leaking small rivulets of blood.
Rising slowly, Mackering walked over to the dead girl, whose head was draped over Giant’s mammoth forearm, pulled the dagger out of her chest and wiped it on Giant’s hose.
“Never let it be said that Master isn’t merciful.” He slipped the dagger into his belt and turned to Biddle. “Mary, dearest—my sweet little doxy. Wash up and meet me in my bedchambers. Together we shall celebrate your victory.” He threw her Angel’s torn skirt. “Cover yourself with the spoils. My men will accompany you back to my closet so you’ll not fall prey to the scurrilous vagabond that roams the darkened streets of London.”
Mary said nothing, her eyes red pools of tears. Mackering kissed her cheek and regarded the pile of bloody flesh on the floor.
“Angel,” he whispered. “My dear little girl. Let us pray that you’ve reached a better world than the one you’ve just left. If not…”
Mackering smiled and shrugged. To Picker he said, “Wrap the body up in sackcloth and dump it in the Thames. The fishermen of the river shall not go empty tonight.”
Mackering bade good-bye to Mary and shooed away all his men save Giant. When the three were alone, Mackering placed a thick hand upon Shakespeare’s shoulder. His fingers began to knead the muscles gently.
“Are you going to be an ass, Willboy, or are you going to tell me where you hid my money?”
Shakespeare didn’t answer.
“You see what kind of powers I have,” Mackering said. “People do whatever I command them to do. Even if it means a fight to their death.” He stroked Shakespeare’s cheek again. “Now, if you tell me where you hid my money, I might let you leave unmolested, Willyboy. But only if you show proper respect.”
Shakespeare remained silent.
“Go on, then,” Mackering said, offended. “Be an ass. And a mule as well. But I am a clever man, Willyboy. I figured you to be closed-lipped and knew I’d have to pry the information about my bits out of you. Originally I had envisioned a test of strength for you, Willyboy. Similar to the one you’d just witnessed, save that the contest was to be betwixt you and my bene cove, Giant.”
Giant smiled.
“But alas,” Mackering sighed. “My desire for sport has been quenched. One grows tired of the color red.”
Mackering dug his nails into Shakespeare’s skin. Shakespeare felt his eyes water, but didn’t react.
Mackering frowned, then brightened. “Not to worry, my good player. I’ve other challenges for you to meet. Of course, you could avoid all my Herculean tasks and simply tell me where my coins are placed.”
“Go to Hell,” Shakespeare said.
“So foul a mouth on so fair a face,” Mackering said.
There was a knock on the door.
“Ah,” Mackering said, skipping about. “And here it comes. Enter, enter.”
In came Christopher Mudd, tottering under the weight of a wooden crate. He stumbled and dropped the box on the floor with a thud. Mackering glowered at the dirty knave.
“Dolt,” he said, backhanding Mudd across the room. “Show finesse when you handle my goods. Now get out.”
Mudd scrambled to his feet and left.
Mackering opened the top of the crate and said, “Willy, my fair boy, come see your new chambers.”
During the first part of confinement, the hours passed as quickly as minutes yet as slowly as days, for Shakespeare had lost all concept of time. Naked, bound and blindfolded, his ears stuffed with swatches of wool, he saw nothing, heard nothing. There had been minutes when the wool had been removed from his ears, the gag untied. A hazy voice demanding to know where he had hidden the money. Even though he was in constant pain, he said nothing. The coins were his only bargaining tool. Once Mackering had his money, Shakespeare’s life would be useless. So the wool was stuffed back in his ears, the gag tightened firmly across his cheeks.
There was food. Sour, rotten, decayed. For feedings only the gag was removed, the sustenance then forced down his throat in five or six spoonfuls. He had gagged at first, retched a time or two, but soon grew accustomed to the mealy taste of spoiled board.
Sometimes the food was mixed with poppy syrup. His thoughts would become suddenly unclear, his stomach nauseated. Then feedings of undrugged meat. He’d suffer from sniffles and chills, shivering as he slept in his own excrement, smelling his own stench. Mercifully, there wasn’t much waste, as he ate very little.
Then the voice—Mackering—ordering him to tell where he’d stowed the money.
Shakespeare remained steadfast in his refusal to talk. He’d once overheard Mackering say it was only a matter of time. How long could Shakespeare last, buried alive in Hell?
In Hell, Shakespeare was physically, but in his brain, ah it was always heaven. The one thing that Mackering had never realized—the power of the fantastic cells.
On the vellum of his mind Shakespeare penned incantations of love, the comic words of the buffoon, grievous orations that wailed out injustices manacled to hapless souls. His eyes didn’t need light to see the lines that burned brightly in his head. Often he’d work until exhaustion blackened the paper of his imagination and forced him to sleep.
He wrote tragedies of love and greed, comedies of mishap and mistaken identity. His fools made him laugh, his misfortuned lovers made him cry, his villains made him hiss with rage. He was visited by ghosts of kings, witches steeped in potions, fairies and elves who made magic and mischief on Midsummer eve. His fingers, numbed by leather straps wound about the wrist, intertwined and stroked the palms of his hands. It was not he who touched himself, but the gentle kiss from a lover’s velvet lips. The sweet tongue that played upon his lips was rooted not in his mouth but in another’s so fair. He learned how to position himself, how to squeeze his legs together to bring himself to pleasure. By rubbing his cheek against his shoulder, he could feel the growth of his beard. He began to measure roughly the days of his captivity.
Occasionally he fell to despair, his mind unable to reach beyond his wretched circumstances. When this happened, he became a soldier—nay, not a soldier, the lord general of a mythical army—and developed a plan of battle. He’d wiggle his fingers and toes until they ached, rotate his bound wrists and ankles, his neck as well, and blink thousands of times under his blindfold. He’d hum, sing, shout, scream until he tired his muscles and was overcome with sleep. Upon awaking, his
mind was refreshed and he eagerly awaited his thoughts as a baby does its mother’s breast.
As long as he could think, he would live.
It was Mackering who broke.
The top of the crate was opened and Shakespeare lifted his head upward, expecting his spoonfuls of slop. Instead heavy arms hoisted him out of the box and dropped him on a floor covered with fresh-smelling straw. Shakespeare stretched his rusted legs and arms—oh, how they ached!
A bucket of cold water was dumped upon his body. His skin tingled, shivered. How glorious it was to feel! More water followed, washing him clean of shit and stench. His binds were removed, his blindfold as well. Dry straw and rushes were dumped over his wet skin. Shakespeare buried himself in reeds, luxuriating in the straw as if it were a down-filled counterpane.
Heavy footsteps receding. The closing of a door.
Slowly, Shakespeare brushed the straw from his eyes, the movement so exquisitely painful. The room was darkened, the sole illumination a rush candle from one wall sconce.
He was alone and the crate was gone.
What fiendish scheme would Mackering think up next?
One thing at a time.
Shakespeare’s eyes turned upward to the heavens and he prayed, offering words of thanks to God, beseeching His infinite mercy for his worthless soul. Shakespeare prayed and prayed and prayed until sweet slumber dusted his brow then covered his body.
Chapter 31
He awoke abruptly. A foot was on his stomach, the tip of a rapier at his throat. Mackering looming over him, sneering.
“Who art thou?” he said in a booming voice.
Slowly, Shakespeare brought his hand to his neck and gently pushed away the point of the sword.
“William Shakespeare,” he whispered. It was so hard to find his voice after all this time. “You’re George Mackering. I robbed you blind and you’ve avenged your loss by having me beaten, fucked, and finally incarcerated in a box for…” He rubbed his cheeks. “I’d say by the growth of my beard, perhaps three, maybe four weeks.”
The Quality of Mercy Page 33
