Faye Kellerman - The Quality of Mercy

“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.

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.”