The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman

year?”

      “Not so,” Shakespeare replied. “I’ve simply been saving my coins. Anne should lack nothing.”

      “What a liar you be,” said Cuthbert, grinning. He quickly added: “A statement made in jest, dear cousin.”

      “I see you value your ballocks.” Shakespeare laughed. “In truth, perhaps a bet or two did turn up sweet. Now, how does a gentleman offer the widow money without offending her honor? Margaret’s a woman sated in pride.”

      “Yes, a problem.” Cuthbert broke into a series of spasmodic coughs. “Then this is what you do. You must lie—in good faith, of course.”

      “How so?”

      “Tell her the money was owed to her husband. He had lent you the pounds when your debts mounted, and had never told her lest he sully your image in her gentle mind. If it pleases her, she may take her just due.”

      “She won’t take my money.”

      “You approach her with a humbleness of tone, yet insistence in your voice. The hooded eyelid, a grave downturn of the lip. Marry, Will, you’re a player! Use your skills and convince the poor widow.”

      “Aye, a player I am,” Shakespeare said. “But she was the superior player’s wife.”

      Cuthbert coughed and nodded. “True. But now she’s stricken with grief. Her finely honed senses have been dulled.” He nudged Shakespeare in the ribs. “The priest is leaving her alone. You have opportunity. Make the most of it.”

      Shakespeare nodded and approached the grieving widow. She was a tall woman with colorless eyes, the lids red and puffy with sorrow. Because her veil was up, the frosty air had bitten raw her cheeks and nose. She held in her hand a sprig of rosemary which she fingered absently.

      Such pain etched on her face, he thought. It served to increase his own.

      “William,” she said quietly.

      “Margaret.” He kissed her on the cheek then lowered his head.

      “Harry was a good soul, wasn’t he?” she asked.

      “Yes, he was.”

      “I loved him, Willy.”

      “I loved him as well,” Shakespeare said softly. “He was my brother in spirit if not in flesh. I’ll miss him dearly.”

      “So will we all,” Margaret said. “At least he’s not departed in vain. Nine living souls will attest to that.”

      “How are the children faring?”

      Margaret sighed. “Their father’s death leans heavily on their legs, but with God’s help they shall keep their balance.”

      “May God shine his love on them.”

      “Thank you,” Margaret whispered.

      Shakespeare held her hands. Margaret had always impressed him as being a strong woman. She had to be. Nine children and a husband who was never home. But Shakespeare never heard her complain. Harry had always supported his family quite well.

      Shakespeare cleared his throat. “I have something I must give you,” he said.

      “I’m not in want of anything.”

      “Nor do I claim you to be. I simply want to pay you back for money I borrowed from Harry.” Shakespeare reached into his doublet and took several gold coins. “It’s long overdue.”

      Margaret said, “Harry did not make it a habit to lend money, Will. You, more than anyone, should be aware of that. Ye men! Cuthbert had tried the same tactic and was no more successful.”

      The scoundrel, Shakespeare thought. Instructing me, knowing all the while I would fail. He sighed to himself.

      “I pray you, Margaret,” he said. “Take it so I may do honor to my mentor’s widow. The favor will be yours.” He extended his hand toward her. “Please.”

      Slowly, Margaret reached for the crowns, then retracted her hand. “If I’m in need, dear Will, I’ll call you. For now, let’s leave the matter untouched. Agreed?”

      “Agreed.” Shakespeare stuffed the coins back into his doublet.

      “Aye, such times we live in, Will,” Margaret said, walking away from the grave. “An honest man cannot traverse the land without fear of the bastard highwaymen.”

      Shakespeare said, “Were I to find the cutpurse responsible for this act, I’d give him his entitlement. Bait for the unchained bear would be an appropriate death.”

      “Aye, make it slow and painful,” Margaret added.

      “And gruesome.”

      Margaret laughed hollowly. “We’re as bad as heathens. Christians do not engage in this kind of speech.”

      Shakespeare said nothing.

      “Aye, Will, you are as Harry. Incorrigible.” Margaret sighed. “How I yearn for more innocent days.”

      “An illusion, Margaret.”

      “Not so,” she protested. “My grandmother recalls such times.”

      Shakespeare didn’t answer.

      “And you think this not so?”

      “Memories of the elderly are bathed in sunlight—exceedingly bright yet very indistinct.”

      Margaret shook her head.

      “So I shall remain wistful and labor in my delusion,” she said. “It’s a terrible lot to be a player. Traveling on the road, dependent on the kindness of the hostler, alert and watchful lest you fall prey to the cozening knave that roams the country’s highways. If you were sound of mind, Will, you’d go back to Anne and the children and return to the occupation of your father.”

      Shakespeare shook his head.

      “Go home to your family, Will. Go home and make peace.”

      “My home is here with the fellowship, Margaret,” Shakespeare said. “I’d be one foot in the grave if I gave up the theater. Anne knows that. I cannot live without the stage, and she refuses to uproot. So we both act as we must. The great Guild of Whittawer will have to go on without me.” He smiled. “Heaven only knows how it has endured this long in my absence.”

      They walked a few more feet in silence. The wind shot chilled arrows that pierced their lungs.

      Shakespeare said, “Margaret, why did you bury Harry outside of London instead of in his family land up North?”

      Margaret turned white. “Harry mentioned his family to you?”

      “Very briefly. He claimed he was born of displaced nobility. But then again, he claimed diverse things, many of which were products of a prevaricating mind.”

      “Harry had kinsmen up North,” Margaret said. “But they are not family. You see how many have come to his funeral today.”

      “Yet he was visiting them when he was killed,” Shakespeare said.

      Margaret didn’t respond. She wrapped herself in resentment and wore it as visibly as her cloak. She bit her thumbnail, then said,

      “Who will find my husband’s murderer, Willy?”

      It was Shakespeare’s turn to be silent.

      “None of Harry’s true brothers have offered to seek vengeance for him,” Margaret said. “My husband’s soul cannot rest in eternity until the slayer is brought to justice.”

      “I’m aware of that, Margaret.”

      “When you had no one to turn to, twas Harry—”

      “I know,” Shakespeare interrupted. “What would you like me to do?”