Where was she?
Where were any of them? Her brother? Her cousins and uncle?
His eyes scanned the crowd once again, then fixed upon a familiar face—black and shiny. Lopez’s blackamoor servant Martino, standing near the gallows, holding a burlap bag. Was he the only one?
The crowd roared. Shakespeare knew that the condemned man’s cart was coming through the gates of Tyburn. The black-hooded executioner suddenly appeared to the right of the gallows, then climbed six steps up to the raw oak platform. He waited, ax in hand.
Everyone waiting.
Where were Rebecca’s kinsmen? Where was she?
The crowd parted, making way for the cart. The mob grew riotous. More of the Queen’s men were sent in to quiet the unruly masses.
The cart stopped: a swarm of bodies descended upon it, only to be repelled by sentries’ pikes and halberds. Protecting the hapless doctor from being torn limb by limb…before the appointed moment.
Shakespeare felt sick. Evil air—murderous vapors.
Roderigo stood, bloodied and stooped. Flanked by guards, he was pushed up the platform steps. To his right were the gallows, a hemp rope ending in a noose swinging from the rafters. To his left stood the executioner. Not a single inch of Tyburn’s field was visible, so packed it was with human flesh.
“Quiet!” the executioner ordered the audience. “The man must be allowed to speak and be heard!”
But the noise would not abate. The crowd inched toward the platform, ready to pounce upon the battered doctor. The sentries closed their ranks around him.
“Quiet!” shouted the executioner once again.
The guards lifted their arms, made menacing gestures to the crowd until the noise reduced to a low-pitched hum.
“Speak,” the executioner ordered.
Roderigo looked around. He whispered the Shma to himself.
“Louder!” commanded the executioner.
Roderigo prayed silently to God, prayed that Rebecca had known what he tried to tell her that day. He suddenly spotted Martino’s black face and smiled inwardly.
Rebecca had known! She had to have known!
It gave him strength.
“I am innocent,” Roderigo whispered.
“Louder!” ordered the axman.
“I am innocent!”
The crowd jeered. Garbage was hurled at the platform.
“The man has a right to his last words!” shouted the executioner. “Let him speak!”
Roderigo felt his throat constrict. He knew what he had to do. Causing confusion was his only hope. Confusion had been Teresa’s salvation.
Create a riot! Say the outrageous!
“I loved my mistress!” Roderigo shouted.
An immediate chorus of hisses and boos drowned him out.
“Silence I say!” screamed the executioner. “The man is entitled to speak his last words!”
Again the crowd quieted.
“I loved my mistress!” Roderigo screamed. “I loved her more than…than Jesus Christ!”
A burst of derisive laughter obliterated Roderigo’s last words. The angry mob advanced toward the platform, and the executioner knew he could no longer retain order. He quickly slipped Roderigo’s head through the noose and hoisted the doctor upward. Roderigo felt the rope tighten around his neck, felt the breath being squeezed out of his body.
Adonai…
Shakespeare saw the executioner cut Roderigo down. The doctor’s body was limp; any facial skin not covered by white beard was purple and puffy. Yet it was obvious that the man was still breathing. His chest was still moving.
Shakespeare turned his head, unable to watch the final destruction of the traitor. Yet some invisible force willed his eyes back to the gallows. He had to observe the barbaric rite to its conclusion.
The audience was wild, crazed with a desire to see blood.
So crowded was the platform that the executioner had disappeared from sight. Waves of people pushed forward as guards shoved them off, Roderigo lost in the multitudes. Finally Shakespeare saw the executioner reappear amidst the pandemonium, his ax held high. The blade swung down with a mighty blow.
A bloodied arm was raised in the air.
Shakespeare felt hot, bitter bile rise in his throat.
Another bloodied arm was hoisted upward, shreds of scarlet flesh dangling from the shoulder socket, the fingers clenched in a fist.
Done to the man whilst he lived.
Shakespeare held back a dry heave.
The leg—hairy, dyed crimson.
The crowd went berserk.
Shakespeare vomited.
The last leg.
God have mercy!
Three guards carried the severed limbs and tied them upon the gates—a warning to any man contemplating treasonous activity.
Shakespeare saw another guard drop the head and torso into a burlap bag, then looked away from the defilement. His eyes passed over the spot where Martino had been standing. The blackamoor was gone.
The executioner was walking away, the ax dripping with red ooze slung over his shoulder.
The black-hooded executioner…His walk was odd.
He limped.
He limped.
A familiar limp.
Another guard stood watch over the bag containing Lopez’s remains. He held a halberd in his left hand; his right hand dangled lifelessly by his side. Still another sentry was positioned to his left, black-bearded but pale.
Where was she?
Shakespeare looked out across the field. On the other side he saw a draper and boy apprentice pushing a cart piled high with burlap away from the bestial packs. The apprentice was costumed for the part—worn brown jerkin, yellow hose, scuffed black boots, and brown cap.
Yet his walk was strange, measured, overly careful…and triumphant. All too familiar—those contours, those delectable curves.
For all the world to see, Roderigo Lopez’s limbs hung from the gates of Tyburn.
But Shakespeare knew otherwise.
God was merciful!
He longed to run to her, to take flight and scoop her up like a hawk claiming its prey. But he remained motionless. The discovery of her disguise would be fatal to everyone. He had no choice but to let her go…forever.
With wet eyes he watched the draper and his apprentice recede until they vanished from eyesight, then he turned around and walked away.
He didn’t look back.
Chapter 63
The envelope was wrinkled and yellow and smelled of seawater. The ink had bled into the paper, but the smudged handwriting was as precious to Shakespeare as gold. He ripped open the letter.
Dear William,
Thank God my letter reached thee, my love. Our hearts now may speak. I first wrote thee as soon as I was able, but alas we are both at the mercy of ships which sail unbearably slow for lovers apart. I eagerly scrawled these rambling words to thee as soon as I received thy response to my first letter. By the time I held thy glorious words in my hand, they were already three months old. So much time will have passed before thou receivest this letter.
Seven months since I’ve seen thee. Yet I picture thy face as clearly as the last time I saw thee, the last time I held thee—at my bedchamber. No, I was not at Tyburn that dreadful day dressed as a boy apprentice. How could I possibly have saved my father’s life? And how could thou entertainst such wild fancy? Thou sawest with thine own fair eyes my poor father’s fate hung upon the gates.
Shakespeare paused. Her father’s fate hung upon the gates. But another’s limbs. Yet if Rebecca had reason for keeping her father’s miraculous rescue a secret from him, so be it. He read on.
My father still lives so vibrantly in my heart. And another lives inside of me. I’m pregnant, my sweet Willy. My only regret is that the child is not thine. I prayed that our last encounter might have brought forth a permanent bond of our love, but it was not to pass. Yet even though the child is not of thy blood, I feel it is of thy soul.
Not his
. In all the times they had loved, his seed had died within her. Yet it was Miguel, performing his husbandly duties to his new wife with perfunctory interest, who had given her womb vitality.
He felt an illogical rage at Miguel, at his own worthless member. Three with Anne, none with the one he loved, the one he worshiped. He bit his thumbnail and continued reading.
I am four and a half months pregnant as of the date of the letter.
Seven months by now.
I look as though I’ve swallowed a melon. My womb is as hard as a melon as well, yet it is vibrant with life. I feel the ever-so-slight tickling of his kicks. Thou wilt note that I use the masculine pronoun. I think the baby a boy, and if this indeed is so, I should like to name him William.
Shakespeare smiled.
Miguel was not pleased by my choice of forename, but if the past be an indicator of things to come, I will prevail over my husband’s objections. Miguel, I’ve discovered, has no armory against my tears. My husband is such a sweet man. I’ve been so volatile of late, my weeping and my laughter come at strange and awkward times and for no reason whatsoever. My mother claims she, too, acted strangely every time she was with child.
The next line was heavily crossed out. The sentence started with the word My. Shakespeare squinted and tried to read what Rebecca had so strongly deleted. He flipped the letter over and felt the bold strokes with his fingertips. No doubt about it. The word my was followed by the word father. He couldn’t decipher anything else. Whatever the sentence had said, it was now lost to him.
He read on:
I thank God thou art spared my spells and my vicious tongue as well. Miguel is tolerant of my moodiness but will have none of my sarcasm. He scolds me when I become waspish but has yet to hit me, though I’ve deserved a bit of a reminder on more than one occasion. He is truly a gentle man, a most worthy husband. Yet our marriage bed is no warmer now than it was on the night we were wed. How could it be when he is repulsed by my body and I am repulsed by anyone other than thee?
I never realized what love was until I met thee. My love for thee keeps me awake at night, dreaming during the day. I am never free from thee—thou holdest me in bondage yet thou art my ultimate liberator. I think of thee and only then am I happy. There are no words to describe my loneliness. Merciful God has tried to keep me occupied by giving my womb life, but even that which daily expands my belly cannot replace the emptiness in my heart.
I hear my
Another cross out, the word husband inserted above the top of the sentence.
I hear my husband calling me. I’ll leave thee by saying that my life as a Jewess in the Levant has been blessed. It is not always easy—is anything simple?—but it has its rich rewards. The rewards, however, do not fill up the space left by thine absence.
Dream of me, Willy.
Rebecca
Shakespeare wrote back.
My dearest Becca,
I write rapidly because Cuthbert Burbage is coming to drag me away. We are in the midst of rehearsing A Comedy of Errors —a book I’d written several years ago. It pleases the nobility—a play of amusement for Twelfth Night, which is naught but a month away.
I weep with joy at thy womb brimming with life. May thy fruit be healthy and lusty and a source of constant happiness.
My sweet Becca, thou knowest I am a madman without thee. I have slept nightly with thy first letter in my hand, so much so that the fibers of the parchment have weakened and shredded from the sweat of my palm. I care not. As long as I hold something written by thine own sweet hand, I feel closer to thee.
Thou requestest me to dream of thee, as if I were able to dream of anyone else. My mind is blinded with thine image, especially at night, when the blackened mist delights in naughty tricks. I see thee standing beside my pallet. I jump out of bed and reach to embrace thee, discovering too quickly that dark hours have played once again the conjurer. I weep when I realize that I hold nothing.
I need to hold thee.
There was a banging on his door. Cuthbert. Damn. Shakespeare quickly wrote.
I am a wretched man without thee.
“Shakespeare?” Cuthbert called from outside.
I must leave thee now. I will write thee a longer letter tonight. I love thee. If it be suited to thy needs, I will come to visit thee in springtime—
“Shakespeare!” Cuthbert pounded the door. “Where the devil are you?”
“A minute,” Shakespeare shouted. “I’m getting dressed.”
“Let me in first.”
“A minute!”
Love me as I love thee.
Forever thine,
Will
Postal service beyond England’s shores was sporadic at best, depending on the vagaries of weather and merchant shipping. The next letter took half a year to arrive. London was drenched in rain, and Shakespeare found the envelope floating in a small puddle outside the door of his closet. He looked upward and his eyes were assaulted by droplets of dirty water.
Leaky roof: his luck, it was right outside his door. The last windstorm had blown off some of the roof’s shingles, and no one had bothered to replace them. At least the inside of his cell was relatively dry.
He picked up the letter, opened the door to his closet, and placed the envelope upon his table. It took ten minutes for the fire to burn the bitter cold from the air. He stood in front of the hearth and rubbed his hands, exhaling warm breath onto his fingers and nose.
Her seal.
Carefully, he picked up the envelope and tried to dry it out with the heat of the fire. After a half hour of careful drying, Shakespeare noticed the handwriting.
Different.
Rebecca’s seal, but not her handwriting.
He wanted to tear open the letter but knew that the paper was still too damp to read.
He held the letter in front of the fire for another fifteen minutes, watched the paper yellow with heat, the ink fade. The writing was still legible, but quite faint.
He opened the slightly moist envelope. The paper inside was damp, stuck to the side of the envelope. With utmost care Shakespeare liberated the letter from its casing.
Too wet to read, but not too wet to notice that it, too, hadn’t been penned by Rebecca’s hand.
He held it to the fire. The words…impossible to read unless he unfolded the paper.
More drying.
More waiting.
Slowly, Shakespeare straightened the first crease.
The ink was smeared, but the words were readable.
The second fold was undone.
One single page. A short note.
He held it up to the light and read,
Dear William Shakespeare,
He turned the letter over. The signature at the bottom said Miguel.
Bastard.
He was forbidding Rebecca to write to him.
Bastard.
Shakespeare read as best he could:
I write this letter out of duty to my wife—a promise I made to her. I will be brief.
The baby came at eight and a half months—a goodly-sized healthy girl with rosy coloring and a strong set of lungs. Everything appeared to be progressing very smoothly, mayhap in retrospect too smoothly. Rebecca’s labor was quick and her milk came in three days later, on time. Tis when she encountered her first fever.
Shakespeare paused.
Fever.
He read on,
Childbed fever. They say it happens to many women. But that makes no difference when it happens to your wife. I need not elaborate. Let us say that God was merciful and swift and she suffered very little. The fever was strong, and she was deep asleep long before she died—
Shakespeare’s eyes suddenly blurred. He slumped to the floor and forced himself to finish the letter.
The child is in fine form. Her name is Teresa Hannah. A lovely girl, she resembles Becca except for her eyes. They are the palest of blue—
Pale eyes. Shakespeare began to cry.
This letter is a deathbe
d promise I made to her. It is not my desire to cause you pain, only to do what has been requested of me. Rebecca also wanted me to tell you that if you desire to write a book for her, do not write about her. On that point she was firm. Instead, pen a work that will pay homage to her dishonored father. A book about a man hated and spat upon, a man wronged because he was a Jew.
Miguel
Shakespeare dropped the letter in his lap and watched the flames of the fire sprint from log to log. A sharp crackle followed by an upward stream of glowing embers. His chest hurt, a deep untendable wound. He sat staring at the fire for what seemed to be hours.
The room became cold and dark. He shivered until his muscles ached, but he didn’t feel the pain.
He no longer felt anything.
She’d been lost to him months ago. But the arrival of Miguel’s letter had smothered his last breath of hope.
All of it, finally dead.
He held the letter in his hand, suddenly crumpled it and threw it on top of the smoldering log. The paper caught fire, turning from yellow to brown then black. A brief flash of light soared through the hearth, then died into ashes.
From dust to dust.
Shakespeare stood up, lit his candlestick and sat at his desk. He took out his quill and a blank piece of paper.
Gone.
She had been lost to him years ago, the day she’d been conceived from Jewish stock.
The room was an icy midnight crypt, the only light the flame of his candle. He sat until the first flickers of dawn broke through his window. The rain had let up.
Write a story. Pay homage to her father.
Write a story about a Jew.
Write.
Anything but this pain, this unrelenting pain.
Write anything. Just write.
Dry-eyed, he picked up his quill and scratched,
In sooth, I know not why I am so sad….
Historical Summary
Doctor Roderigo Lopez lived from 1525 to 1594. A Portuguese converso, he was educated at Salamanca in Spain and settled in London during the early reign of Queen Elizabeth I. He rose to professional prominence by becoming a member of the College of Physicians and was the first house physician at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. He obtained the patronage of the Earl of Leicester and went on to become Lord Leicester’s house doctor. But his most significant advancement came in 1586 when he was appointed physician-in-ordinary to the Queen. He was married to a Portuguese conversa named Sarah and was known to have at least one son and several daughters. Lopez’s brother-in-law, Jorge Anoz, had a son named Dunstan Ames, and Solomon Aben Ayesh, the Duke of Mylitene, was related to Lopez by marriage. An interesting note: Aben Ayesh remained on good terms with the Queen even after Lopez’s execution.
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