Faye Kellerman - The Quality of Mercy

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 a drop of true Lancaster blood had ever flowed in the Welshman’s veins—”

“Let us not quibble with bloodline, Will, and address the problem in our hands,” said Dale. “Master Tilney feels the play is subversive, and we dare not displease Her Grace.” He gently pushed the book against Shakespeare’s chest. “Evil up old Richard. And quickly. We’d like to perform the book by the summer.”

“Shakespeare!”

Shakespeare turned around. That rich, booming baritone could only belong to one person. Richard Burbage was in fine form today—erect posture, as stately as nobility. His nose wasn’t nearly as swollen as it had been the last couple of weeks, and his complexion had returned once again to its rosy hue. His eyes, always dark and secretive, came alive differently with each character he portrayed. This morning they seemed to smolder.

“I see my brother has managed to drag you in before the dinner hour,” he said. His voice was piqued.

Shakespeare smiled. He said, “What do you think of my Richard the Third? You’re the one who’s to play him. Do you think he’s evil enough?”

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you about that very book,” Burbage articulated. “I have concerns about Gloucester’s opening words.”

“What kind of concerns?”

“My entrance speech is much too short.”

“It’s forty lines.”

“Bah,” Burbage scoffed. “Hardly a word is out of my mouth before I’m interrupted by Clarence. I need to expound —set forth my plans, my wishes, my desires, my ruthlessness . Add at least another twenty lines.”

“Twenty lines?”

“Or even an addition of thirty would not be excessive.”

Back to his desktop tonight, Shakespeare thought. “Do you like the book as written, Burbage?”

“Aside from the opening speech?”

“Aside from the opening speech.”

“Richard’s part is too small.”

“Do you think Richard is played too sympathetically?”

“No,” Burbage said. “He just isn’t given enough opportunity to speak.” He smiled and added, “I like that touch you added about old Gloucester being a crookback. It shall play magnificently on stage. All eyes will be upon me.”

The ’tire man shouted again. He was now up on the third level. “You must get fitted at once.”

“Five more minutes, please, Robin,” Shakespeare screamed back.

“By the way,” Robin yelled. “Your new sword just snapped in two. That’s what you get for ordering cheap!”

Splendid, thought Shakespeare.

“So you don’t think the play is treasonous?” Shakespeare asked Burbage.

“Heavens, I’m in no position to judge such an accusation!” Burbage answered. “I’m a tragedian, not a censor.” He patted Shakespeare on the back. “Another forty lines, even fifty if it’s going well.” Without another word, Burbage walked away. Robin Hart came forward carrying some pins and a costume.

“Since you persist in ignoring my pleas, I’ve come to you.”

“It’s not possible to dismiss Richard Burbage in mid-sentence,” Shakespeare said.

“Hold still.” The ’tire man placed a cook’s hat atop Shakespeare’s head. The rim was much too large and slipped over his face.

“What is this?” Shakespeare protested, lifting off the hat.

“You are to play the cook this afternoon,” Hart said. “By the way, I’ve found you a sword.”

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

“Tut, Robin. I can walk home and get my own sword.”

“Too late for that. Just be careful with it.”

“I shall.”

“The blade is imported from—dare I say it—Toledo. Such a fine point it has. The slightest poke could cause a nasty wound. But I trust you with it.”

“Many thanks,” Shakespeare said. “I thought Augustine was going to play the cook.”

“Augustine broke his leg. He fell off a horse, the stupid jack!” Hart plopped the hat back on Shakespeare’s head and began to pin the rim. “You’re also to play the guard, the night watchman, the constable—”

“How am I to play the constable if I’m to play the drunkard, when the drunkard and the constable are on stage at the same time? Must I talk to myself?”

“You shall simply shift from one position to another.”

“That’s absurd. I will be laughed off the platform and pelted with slop.”

“Nonsense,” Hart insisted. “You may play the fool as well, if you’d like.”

“I’m already doing that.”

The ’tire man pulled the hat off and pounded Shakespeare on the back. “We have confidence in you, Willy.”

“Where is the book?” Shakespeare asked. “If I am to be an ass in front of hundreds of people, I may as well learn the lines.”

Hart handed him scrolls of the various parts. “The lines are simple enough. If you don’t like what’s there, write your own. Only do be careful of the cues. Keep them consistent with the rest of the book.”

Shakespeare groaned as he read. “Who’s doing the prompting this afternoon?” he asked.

“Willy Dale.”

“Then it seems I should have great need of his services. There are over three hundred lines to commit to memory.”

“I’ve no worry,” Hart said. “You’ve done it before. But a little suggestion, Willy.” He smiled and patted his cheek. “Go gently with the garlics at dinner.”