The Quality of Mercy Read Online Free PDF

the fate of his partner and friend. Again Cuthbert placed a hand on his shoulder. He said, softly,
    “What’s the sense, Will? Harry is dead and gone. But we are still among the living. We’ve a performance at two and our stomachs are empty.”
    “I’ve not an appetite,” Shakespeare said. “But a pint of ale would well wet my throat.”
    Cuthbert coughed.
    “And yours, also,” added Shakespeare. “Have you seen an apothecary about the cough?”
    “Aye.”
    “And what did he say?”
    “Quarter teaspoon dragon water, quarter teaspoon mithri-date, followed by a quart of flat warmed ale. If it worsens, perhaps more drastic measures need to be taken.”
    “What kind of measures?”
    “He made mention of leeching.”
    They were silent for a moment.
    “Nothing to be concerned about,” Cuthbert said.
    “Good.” Shakespeare paused, then said, “I must go up North for a few weeks.”
    Cuthbert stopped walking. “Up North? Alone? Are you mad?”
    “Far from it.”
    “Though I mean no disrespect for the deceased, we are already one player short, Will.”
    “Margaret asked it of me,” Shakespeare said. “And I would have done it anyway. I owe it to Harry.”
    “A minute ago you called him a millstone around your neck.”
    “He deserves peace in eternity,” Shakespeare said. His eyes suddenly moistened. “He visited me in my dreams last night, lectured me in the proper art of projection….” Shakespeare suddenly covered his eyes with his hands. “His restless soul hangs about me like a nagging wife. The Devil with it! I must avenge him, Cuthbert, or I’ll have no peace of mind.”
    “But—”
    “Save your breath.”
    Cuthbert knew arguing with him was useless. Shakespeare and Whitman — both mules. He said, cautiously, “Perhaps the fellowship can handle your absence financially,
if
it’s only for one week—”
    “Give me two weeks. The open roads may be poor.”
    Cuthbert sighed. “Two weeks, then. I pray you, Willy, no more than two weeks.”
    Shakespeare agreed, then added, “Much can happen in two weeks.”
     
Chapter 3
     
    Judging from the number of people, the funeral party was an immense success. It was only six in the evening, but scores of sweating bodies had already filled the Great Hall of the Ames’s manor house. Most were respected commoners — wealthy business merchants, gold traders, and local statesmen — but some gallants and important nobility had elected to make an appearance. The great ladies gossiped, huddling around the lit wall torches or floor sconces so they could be observed and admired under proper lighting. They fanned themselves, studied the crowds, the dress of those without title, wondering if the commoners were violating any of the sumptuary laws. Other wives stood against the black-draped walls and sneered at their husbands stuffing their mouths with food. Two dozen rows of banqueting tables were piled high with delicacies — milk-fed beef stewed with roots, venison in plum sauce, trays of poultry, platters of pheasants roasted over the open pit in the center of the room. The hall had become stifling, choked with the smell of perspiration and the heat of cooking.
    But Rebecca Lopez took no notice. Head down, she spoke to no one, and no one dared address her. She was the fiancée of the deceased, Raphael Nuñoz, and as such, entitled to her grief in solitude. She had chosen a spot under a drafty window at the far end of the Great Hall and remained alone, her aloofness constructing an invisible barrier that kept the guests away. Frosty air blew upon her neck and shoulders, and she was shivering — the only one in the room to do so. Her mother had offered her a blanket, but Rebecca had declined. She made no further effort to become warm.
    Yesterday she’d been numbed by what had happened. She hadn’t been able to feel cold, heat, or pain. But now all she felt was anger and a fervent wish that all the commotion would end soon. Among all of them — the