The Quality of Mercy

“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.

Chapter 7

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.

“You say that Cat brought you into town?” Fottingham asked. His black beard, spangled with droplets of ale, spread over his chest like a bib.

“Cat?” Shakespeare asked.

“The stew.”

“She told me not her name.”

Fottingham’s eyes brightened. “Flesh of a woman who has no name. How lusty.”

Shakespeare smiled. “Why do they call her Cat?”

“Because she purrs like a kitten during the rutting. Her Christian name is also Catherine.”

“She tells an interesting story.”

“Marry,” the alderman said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “She’s a notorious liar. Her mother lives, as does her father. He’s a whoremonger. Cat is his best moneymaker.”

“I’ve been gulled,” Shakespeare said dryly.

Fottingham laughed. “Fell for her pathetic tale, did you? Paid her twice as much as necessary?”

“I think so.”

“Not to worry,” Fottingham said. “Others have been her coney. Besides, your face would be pleasing to the young girl. I’m sure she was quite enthusiastic with her favors.”

“Quite,” Shakespeare said. “Though she did remark that the hair on my head was scant … the hair on my chin as well.”

“Tact is not the whore’s forte,” the alderman said. “She chides me constantly for my growing belly.” He patted his stomach. “Once I was as trim as you. Once I was as young as you also. The luxury of aging. One may grow fat and content and sport with merry young wenches without bitter tears from the wife. Mine has served her purpose. Fifteen children, ten which still live. She is grateful for the punks. They give her much rest.” Fottingham belched out loud, spied a leftover piece of meat on the floor and popped it in his mouth. Rabbit. Delicious.

“And now I have the pleasure of asking what has brought the player and bookwriter William Shakespeare to Hemsdale.”

“I’m looking for acquaintances of a man—one Henry Whitman—Harry, as he liked to be called.”

“The famous player Harry Whitman?”

“Yes.”

“Are you his friend or his enemy?”

“His friend,” Shakespeare replied.

“His company played here six years ago,” Fottingham said. “The troupe was very well received. Whitman was particularly impressive. He and that other one, who was quite a bit younger.”

“Richard Burbage.”

“Yes, that was the name,” said the alderman. “But you weren’t with them.”

“I wasn’t in London at the time.”

“Where is your birthplace?”

“Warwick.”

“Never made it this far north before?”

“Not until this day,” Shakespeare said. “Mayhap Harry passed through here recently?”

“Harry passed through here yearly,” Fottingham said. “On his way down from his visits with his cousin, Lord Henley.”

“You knew Harry well?” Shakespeare asked.

“Hardly at all,” said Fottingham. “But Harry is hard to miss. He’s a noticeable man physically—big and hairy. But as big as Harry is, tis his voice that is most memorable.”

Shakespeare said, “He played it as if it were a viol—deep and beautiful. His soliloquies could bring one to tears.”

Fottingham saw moisture in the younger man’s eyes. He stared at Shakespeare and said, “What happened to Harry?”

Shakespeare whispered, “He was murdered.”

“God’s blood, that’s horrible!” Fottingham seemed genuinely surprised. “Henley never said a word. When did this happen?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“Where was he done in?”

“In the open countryside about fifteen miles from here. He was found dead, stabbed, left to rot in a sheep’s cot.”

“Good heavens!”

Neither one spoke. Fottingham suddenly squinted his eyes with suspicion and asked Shakespeare,

“And why are you here?”

Shakespeare replied, “I’m trying to find out what happened to him during his last days. Perhaps you know of someone who had talked to him as he passed through Hemsdale?”

“Not I.” The alderman lifted a thigh and passed wind. “I don’t even recall seeing him two weeks ago, although I know he passed through Hemsdale every year right before Mayday.”

“But you had spoken to him in the past?” Shakespeare asked.

“A word or two,” the alderman said. “Harry never resided at our local inn—The Grouse. He literally passed through the town.”

Fottingham paused. Shakespeare knew there was more but like the line well-acted, timing was of crucial importance. He waited for the alderman to continue. A minute later, Fottingham said, “It might be wise if you let the dead rest in peace, my friend. It’s possible you’ll discover things about Harry that are best left buried.”

“Such as?”

“Things.”

“Specifically.”

“Just things.” The alderman closed his mouth stubbornly.

Shakespeare chose not to push him further. He said, “A poor outcome is a consequence of gambling. I’ll chance the game.”

“Why is this bit of intrigue important to you?” the alderman asked. “It won’t restore breath to Harry’s nostrils.”

“I have reasons.”

“Revenge on his murderer?”

“Perhaps.”

“It will eat you alive, Shakespeare. Rot the flesh off the bones. The fiend could be anyone—a man with a personal grudge, a hot-headed drunk, a madman. Leave revenge to the hands of God.”

Shakespeare said nothing.

“Revenge is a wily bastard, goodman,” said Fottingham. “Be careful or you’ll suffer the same fate as your friend.” The alderman paused, then said, “Go to the Fishhead Inn and talk to the innkeeper—Edgar Chambers. Harry often stayed there. I’ve even heard him recite some of his bawdy poetry there. It was quite clever and very randy. I shall write you a letter of reference for Chambers.”

“Thank you, sir, for your sound counsel and help.” Shakespeare stood up. “Is Lord Henton in his residence?”

Fottingham stood and let out a rakish laugh. “Aye. But he won’t be telling you anything important. He’s weak in the head.” The alderman tapped his temples. “And old and feeble. His quill has been quite dry for years now, though it doesn’t bother his young, pretty wife. Her parchment is well-saturated.”

Shakespeare smiled, noticed the gleam in the alderman’s eye.

“You’ll get nothing from the old lord,” Fottingham said, scribbling out a letter on a scrap of paper. “Speak with Chambers at the Fishhead. He’s a slippery man, Shakespeare. Selectively quiet. You may need to expend a tuppence or two before the innkeeper grows loquacious.”

“Rare is the man who dances not to the tune of jingling coins.”

“True words, my boy,” said the alderman. He closed the letter with his seal and handed it to Shakespeare. In return, Shakespeare drew his poniard from its hilt.

“A gift for your kindness,” he said, extending the dagger.

“Nay, insult me not, goodman.”

“But the insult will be mine, sir, if you accept it not.”

“If I come to London, treat me as I treated you.”

“But I cannot hope to entertain you in such a splendid manor.”

“Then invite me to witness you on stage.”

“Done a thousand times.”

The Fishhead Inn lay on the rocky banks of Loch Gelder, a small shadow of the steely, blue water. From time to time the smooth surface of the looking glass would crack open and up would jump an industrious gilded-scaled gudgeon or a silvery loach sided with streaks of pastel pinks and blues. Long seasons of heavy rainfall were common, and flooding of the inn from the lake was warded off by a barrier of piled boulders.

The hostel was modest in size, holding one hundred fifty able-bodied men. The architecture was simple—two stories of plastered walls, roofed with rifts of oak timber. A fine brick chimney puffed out clouds of muddy brown smoke.

The welcome sign—the hallmark of a quality inn—was fashioned from a solid block of walnut. Carved out of the center was a loach painted in bright reds and greens, with its tail curved under its belly. FISHHEAD INN was carved about the loach in bold, blue letters. The rest of the block was smooth, finished wood, sanded and varnished to a high gloss. Three feet in length, six inches in depth, the sign was too large and heavy to hang. Instead it was propped up by two oak posts.

Excessive and costly, thought Shakespeare.

He went inside, sat down at a small, round table and ordered a bottle of the cheapest port on the fareboard—two shillings sixpence. His money was draining, and he hoped his luck at the hare races would continue as it had the past year. He drank half the bottle then, fueled by the warm glow of the spirits, asked the tapster if he might have a word or two with Edgar Chambers. Shakespeare handed him his letter of reference. Minutes later a man sat down at his table and introduced himself as Chambers.

Young, Shakespeare noticed. Perhaps as much as ten years younger than himself. At the most twenty. Ruddy red cheeks and a fleece of strawberry-blond wool for hair. Shakespeare extended his hand and Chambers took it.

“I thank you, kind innkeeper, for permitting me the pleasure of your company,” Shakespeare said.

“The honor is mine, goodman,” Chambers replied. “Welcome to my humble little hostel.”

“Nay, it is a splendid hostel,” Shakespeare argued. Such deprecation was not expected to pass without comment. “Full of scrumptious food, fine wines, and company fit for the Queen. Tis truly English, goodman.”

“You are too kind,” Chambers said. “How can I be of service to you?”

“Did not Alderman Fottingham’s letter explain the purpose of my visit?”

“Nay. He wrote simply that you wish an audience with me.”

“Then I shall tell you the purpose,” Shakespeare said. “I’m trying to find out if a friend of mine passed through this town—Harry Whitman.”

Chambers paled. Shakespeare leaned forward.

“What do you know about him?” Shakespeare asked.

“Yes, well … He’s a great player, of course,” Chambers stammered.

Shakespeare said, “He lodged here often—”

“No!” cried Chambers. “Who told you that?”

“He stayed overnight—”

“No,” Chambers insisted.

Shakespeare took out a shilling.

“No,” Chambers said, hitting it out of his hands. “Not for love or money did he lodge here. Good day, sirrah!”

Chambers stalked away, but Shakespeare followed him. He grabbed the hostler’s arm.

“Are you challenging me?” Chambers said with sudden viciousness. His hand was clenched around the hilt of his rapier.

“I pray you,” Shakespeare said, “understand that I loved Harry, that he was most dear to me. If the tendrils of compassion wrap around your heart, let them squeeze it to remind you of the pain of untimely loss—of murder most fell.”

“Murder?”

Shakespeare nodded. Chambers had turned ashen.

“We cannot talk here in public,” Chambers whispered. “Too many open ears. Come with me.”

Shakespeare followed the hostler down a dim hallway dotted with rushlights housed in rusty wall sconces. At the end of the hall was a small, almost hidden door. Chambers took out a large, brass skeleton key and opened the lock.

Chambers’s private closet was spacious and brimming over with natural light. The walls were wainscoted with walnut panels below, forest-green silk cloth above the wood. Framed pictures of fish—all kinds of fish—abounded. A large mounted whitefish rested on a wooded mantel. Chambers pulled out a chair from a round table, offered it to Shakespeare, then sank wearily into his own chair, positioned across the table.

Shakespeare said, “Tell me what happened to Whitman.”

“I don’t know anything about a murder!” insisted Chambers. “As God is my witness, I speak the truth.”

“Then what do you know?”

“He lodged here.”

“For how long?” Shakespeare asked.

“Three … no, four … four days.”

“A long time,” Shakespeare commented. “Was that his usual length of stay?”

Chambers shook his head rapidly. “His longest visit ever. In the past he had stayed only a night. Last year he stayed two days. This time four.”

“Then why did you deny knowing him?” Shakespeare asked.

“I had my reasons,” Chambers said.

“And they were?”

Chambers didn’t answer. Shakespeare let it go and asked,

“How did Whitman pass the hours here?”

“In pursuit of pleasure,” Chambers said. “Your friend was fond of dicing.”

Shakespeare frowned. “Dicing?”

“Aye.”

Shakespeare said, “Harry enjoyed drinking, making merry. But dicing? You’ve mistaken him for someone else.”

“No mistake. Whitman diced, gambled. And lost a great deal of money.”

“Tell me.”

Chambers became animated. “The first night his hap was sweet, his winnings large. But the last days of his stay—he was here for five days—”