The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman
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climb the stairway and jiggle the door?”
“It was bolted shut. Prying it open would have been difficult even for the most experienced of thieves. Twould have created much mess and racket.”
“Is your window bolted shut as well?”
“Closed, but not locked. The latch had broken off during the last windstorm. My current preoccupation with Harry has not afforded me time to repair it.”
“So there’s no other way to come in except through the window?”
Shakespeare nodded. “A practical fellow, this ghost of Harry’s.”
“Harry was practical,” Cuthbert said.
Shakespeare smiled and held up an icy shoe by the toe. “What am I to do? I haven’t another pair.”
“Use mine.”
“Be not absurd. Are my feet more valuable than yours?”
“I’ve another pair. We’ll stop by my closet on the way to the theater.”
“Than I shall wear these until we reach your room.”
Cuthbert grabbed the shoe from Shakespeare’s hand. “Admit it or not, my friend, you are ill. You’re red from fever and you’re shivering.”
“And you’ve just bested a miserable cough.”
“Stop jousting, Shakespeare, and listen to me for once. Wear my shoes, I’ll wear these.” Cuthbert squeezed the leather pumps and small trickles of water splashed to the ground. “See. They’re melting already.”
“Such cheer,” Shakespeare said. “It makes me sick.”
“How does your head feel, Will?”
“As if it were visited by the Scavenger’s Daughter.”
Papers tucked under his arms, Shakespeare strolled with Cuthbert in silence down Gracechurch Street. With his feet dry, ensconced in warm woolen socks and cracked-leather boots, he felt much better. The sting of the cold was chasing away his lethargy, and his mind began to revitalize, racing with thoughts of one book or another.
He loved the walk from his room in the city of London to the new theater in Southwark, just over the Thames. In the quiet of the predawn dark ideas would come to him, often starting off as no more than a wisp of reflection—a line or two, perhaps taken from bits of overheard conversation or gossip. London was an early riser, waking not as a man who stretches and bellows and farts, but as a woman who slowly wipes sleep from her eyes and smiles, seducing all that surrounds her with innocence and beauty. He loved her all the time, but more deeply in the mornings.
By the time they reached London Bridge, Shakespeare noticed how truly late it was, his oversleeping an outcome of the potion slipped into his sack, no doubt. The shops and houses that lined the bridge were bustling with activity. The sun had risen hours ago and was desperately trying to break through a sheet of steely clouds. A week ago it had been hot. Last night, freezing, unusual for May. Daft weather, daft times.
They passed St. Thomas of the Bridge, with its stately columns and pointed, arched windows—architecture of the old Church. His mind, filled with the image of Christ, suddenly juxtaposed against the dark memories of last night.
Who had visited him? Though he believed in ghosts, he was skeptical that he’d witnessed a genuine apparition. A phantom from the netherworld would be ethereal—of no form or definite shape. It needn’t have used a physical blow on the back of the head as an admonition. Yet what visited him last night did precisely that.
Shakespeare cleared his thoughts. Walking steadily, he and Cuthbert crossed over the gray waters of the Thames until reaching St. Saviour’s in Southwark. As they continued west, Shakespeare could hear the snorts and cries of the bulls, bears, and dogs caged in Paris Gardens. So far the theaters and baiting arenas had been allowed to remain open for public viewing, but if the toll of the dead from plague climbed further, all forms of amusement would be shut down to prevent further spreading of disease. Compared to last year, it seemed to Shakespeare that Black Death was striking earlier in the season and deadlier than ever.
Shakespeare had been lucky since arriving in London ten years ago. Rarely had the theaters been forced to close for more than a month at a time. The last time they had bolted their doors had been last summer—in July, when London had been choked with disease. The company had taken its productions on tour. Shakespeare remembered that travel had been exhausting. The country roads, often flooded, had been small or nonexistent, and the company’s accommodations had been cheap. Frequently they had passed the night in the stable with the horses, using only loose straw for a blanket. But, marry, the countryside had been in full blossom that year, a palette of color, the air scented sweeter than perfume.
Shakespeare inhaled deeply, and a waft of dung assaulted his nostrils. A bear’s roar filled his ears. A devil it was to project the lines over the blast of animal noises. But the theater’s new location was amid a lot more traffic, and the more traffic, the more money.
They reached the Unicorn. The theater was not yet completed, only half built, and preparations for the play seemed as chaotic as ever. The recent move from Shoreditch to Southwark was simply one more complication in a never-ending series of problems. Stagekeepers attempted to clean the standing pit and the galleries, sweeping away the remains of rotted food served during yesterday’s performance. Hired men wielded hammers and calipers, building scaffolds and fixing warped boards on the platform stage. A boy apprentice, gowned in full costume, raced back and forth, toting faggots of wood needed for repairs. Robin Hart paced furiously, the ’tire man shouting complaints to no one in specific about the condition of the players’ wardrobe. The clothes were being treated carelessly, and he was tired of mending unnecessary tears.
William Dale grabbed Shakespeare as soon as he saw him enter, pulling him away from Cuthbert.
“Where were you?” he asked. “Don’t you realize the time?”
Shakespeare debated giving him an explanation but thought better of it. He shrugged helplessly.
“We’ve a problem,” said the keeper of the books. “The Master of the Revels has taken umbrage to your Richard.”
“Which Richard?”
“The Third.”
“What’s wrong with the book?” Shakespeare asked.
“Willy,” shouted the ’tire man from afar. He was upstairs in the second gallery, holding a bundle of clothing. “Come get fitted.”
“In a minute, Robin,” Shakespeare shouted back. He returned his attention to Dale. “What’s wrong with the play?”
“Master Tilney objects to your portrayal of Richard. He claims you’ve made the Duke of Gloucester too human.”
Shakespeare sighed. “Too human?”
“The original book—which you’ve rewritten—showed Gloucester to be an evil, scheming—”
“I’ve continued to write him with much evil—”
“He has too much doubt, Will,” Dale said. “Aye, he does evil, but he anguishes about it.”
“Without the anguish,” Shakespeare said, “he becomes a flat figure of a man with no thoughts other than those of the Devil. If I’d wanted to write a passion play, where good is named good, evil is named evil, chastity is a boy wearing white and gluttony a fat man with a pomaded beard, I would have done so without using the pretense of Richard.”
“Will,” Dale explained patiently, “the Duke of Gloucester was usurper of the throne. The Queen will not be pleased if such a man is played for sympathy. The Tudors are claimants from the House of Lancaster.”
“Harry the Eighth was more York than Lancaster,” Shakespeare countered.
“Owen Tudor came from the House of Lancaster.”
“Not