The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman

was seized with the shakes.

      “Marry,” Cuthbert said. “You’re ill.”

      “No,” Shakespeare insisted. “I’m well. Just wet and cold.” He stood up on quivering legs and dried his face. “I was having a beast of a nightmare. I thought a serpent was upon me.”

      “Let me help you dress—”

      “I’m able to dress myself, thank you,” Shakespeare snarled.

      He managed to change his soaked chemise, but it took a great deal of effort. His head throbbed. A bad attack of fever, he thought. No worse, he hoped.

      “You’re flushed, Willy,” Cuthbert said. “Go back to sleep. And for the love of heaven, sleep on your pallet. No one can get a proper night’s rest slackened over on a desktop.”

      “The voice is the voice of Cuthbert, but the words are words of Anne.” Shakespeare slipped on his hose.

      “You have need of your wife.” Cuthbert looked around the room. It was covered in dust. “Or at the very least, a wench with a broom.”

      Shakespeare picked up his doublet and looped his hands through the armholes, straining with each movement. He heard Cuthbert gasp, and looked up.

      “What is it?” he asked.

      “Your head.” Cuthbert reached out to touch the back of his friend’s skull, but quickly withdrew his hand.

      Shakespeare felt it immediately—a large, crusty lump at the base of his head. He picked off a piece of the scabrous wound and regarded the dried blood.

      “Someone attacked me last night,” he announced.

      “Bigod! Who?”

      “Harry’s ghost.”

      “What?” Cuthbert whispered.

      “Harry’s ghost,” Shakespeare repeated. “At least that’s who it said it was. I never did see its face. Nor was its voice tuned as Harry’s.” He held up a loose sleeve. “Help me put this on.”

      Cuthbert sank down onto the straw pallet in the corner of the room. His face was white.

      “Whatever it was knocked me over the head,” Shakespeare said. “Why Harry’s ghost would desire me harm, I know not.”

      He noticed that Cuthbert had begun to tremble, and sat down next to him. Shakespeare prodded his friend’s arm.

      “Get hold of your wits, man. We have a performance this afternoon. Best we get in as many as we can while the theaters are still open. In the last few weeks Black Death has stalked the city like a fiend gone mad.”

      Cuthbert took the sleeve absently.

      “Do you think you were actually visited by Harry’s spirit?” he asked.

      Shakespeare shrugged. “I know not.”

      “What counsel did it offer you?”

      “We didn’t talk too long. I do remember asking myself this—why was I falling back asleep when there still remained so much more to say? Now I realize that the ghost—or whatever it was—blunted my senses lest I question it too keenly.”

      They sat in silence. Shakespeare pulled the sleeve away from Cuthbert and, with a heavy sigh, drew it over his arm.

      “At least truss up the points for me,” he said.

      “Merciful Jesu,” Cuthbert said, tying the sleeve to the doublet. “If it were Harry’s ghost, then the dead shall not rest in peace until the murder has been avenged.”

      “On the contrary,” Shakespeare said. “The voice told me to cease my inquiry in Harry’s murder. Which makes me think that it was indeed a man and not a spirit.”

      “Or maybe it was nothing at all, Willy.” Cuthbert stood and began to pace. “Perhaps you drank too much sack last night.”

      “Only a sip or two.”

      “Are you sure—”

      “A God sointes, Cuthbert, do you honestly think I bashed in my own head? My imagination may be fanciful, but this bump isn’t a product of conceit. Nay, I wasn’t overpowered by sack last night, but something in the sack overpowered me—nightshade, or perhaps foxglove or Indian acacia. I’m sleepy from potion, my friend. I can barely stand without toddling.”

      “And you think a spirit did this to you?” Cuthbert asked.

      “Either a specter or an imposter. Throw me my other sleeve. It’s on the desktop.”

      “Are you going to listen to its caveats?”

      “No.”

      Cuthbert tossed Shakespeare the sleeve.

      “You’re not?”

      “Not at all. Had it been polite, I would have considered its admonitions. But since it has shown itself to be a rude animal, I will disregard it totally.”

      “And you will continue to look for Harry’s slayer?”

      “I shall … though it may take me years to find him.” Shakespeare finished tying his sleeve and stood up. “It’s not the first time it has taken me years to achieve my goals.”

      It had taken Shakespeare three years to go from horse tender to stagehand, another three years until he’d been made an equal sharer in the fellowship. Whitman had been Shakespeare’s staunchest supporter. Richard Burbage, the fellowship’s lead actor after Harry, had been vehemently opposed to the idea. Their argument had been overheard by the entire troupe.

      Shakespeare is strictly mediocre as a tragedian, Burbage had boomed.

      Agreed, orated Whitman in a louder voice than Burbage.

      His voice barely projects over the shouts of the groundlings, Burbage argued.

      Agreed, said Harry.

       He has little presence on stage.

      He had a good comic presence in his last performance, Harry said, defending his charge.

      Burbage cried, He almost upstaged me! No, no, I refuse to have equal billing with an upstart.

      Harry said, If he is not part of the fellowship, then the fellowship will have to do without Whitman. He added slyly, See how you do playing against me instead of with me, Burbage.

      Richard Burbage paled. Whitman was the biggest draw in London.

      Burbage said, Divine Jesu, Harry, Shakespeare is a good bookwriter. But why do you insist that he be part of the fellowship?

      Because I love that boy, Harry said. He’s a dreamer … as I once was …

      The next day Shakespeare had been voted in as a sharer.

      Yes, Shakespeare had had patience then, he would have patience now. He said to Cuthbert, “I shall know Harry’s murderer and he shall know me.”

      “Some things are better put to rest, Willy.”

      “Harry was cut down before his time. The rogue responsible must pay. Harry’s soul must be put to rest.” Shakespeare held back his grief. “Enough said. Where did I put my shoes?”

      “They’re in front of the window.”

      Shakespeare walked over and picked them up. “They’re frozen.” He looked at Cuthbert. “I make it not a habit to work in front of an open window in such weather. The cold freezes the ink.”

      “The spirit—or the imposter—must have come in through the window,” Cuthbert said. “Obviously it neglected to secure the latch when it departed.”

      “Now that’s a curious thing indeed,”