“How many conversos are we to provide papers for?” Roderigo asked.
“De Gama wrote at least a dozen,” Aben Ayesh answered.
Esteban Ferreira de Gama was their Iberian contact, the man responsible for concealing the Spanish conversos on the galleons. King Philip knew about him. As long as the English conversos continued to pay His Majesty, Ferreira de Gama was safe from harassment by the Spanish sentries guarding the docks. But once on board, the stowaways were on their own.
“How many men, women, and children?” Roderigo asked. “I have to tell the women what kind of papers to prepare.”
“I know not,” Aben Ayesh answered. “De Gama has promised another note letting me know the details of the cargo.”
Unusual cargo. But when writing to Philip, the Ames Levantine Trade Company had to refer to the stowaways as something. Roderigo was the intermediary representative acting for the company, requesting in writing the purchase of “cargo” from His Majesty. Sometimes the company acquired “pepper.” Other correspondences spoke of the company’s desire to buy cargo of musk, amber, pearls, rubies, diamonds. Much “trade” he had with the Spanish king. Perhaps too much trade for the Queen’s tolerance. Unofficially, England and Spain were still at war. They had to act as fast as possible.
Aben Ayesh continued, “The stowaways should be docked in Spanish Brussels by the end of June. Our agent there is still David. He will bring them to Amsterdam and integrate them.”
Jorge said, “The whole mission will be harder than ever. The galleon ship flies the flag of Sicily—Philip’s dominion. There are bound to be Spaniards aboard, and since Raphael was caught, they’ll be looking out for more stowaways—as well as Miguel.”
“Ferreira de Gama wrote of another possibility,” Aben Ayesh said. “It may be possible to transfer the conversos to an inbound vessel—a ship headed for the Thames. If this is the situation, Miguel has only to sneak aboard a local ship—a much simpler task. The English will not be as suspicious or as vicious as the Spanish. And, God forbid, if Miguel is captured, at least he’ll be under the arm of Her Majesty instead of His Majesty and the Inquisition—as was Raphael.” He sighed. “Dearest, poor Raphael…”
Aben Ayesh lowered his head for a moment. Then it was back to business. He said, “If Ferreira de Gama can arrange such a task, so be it.”
“How inconspicuously does Esteban Ferreira de Gama move under the watchful eye of the Inquisition?” Dunstan asked.
“He grows increasingly concerned for his safety,” Aben Ayesh said. “But, praise be to God, so far the Holy See has no suspicions that he is one of us.”
“What’s the name of the galleon that holds the conversos?” Benjamin asked.
“El Don Carlos,” said Aben Ayesh. “Would that Philip’s son were as mighty as his namesake of a ship.”
“We must begin Miguel’s training at once. He must be skilled enough to fight off anyone who challenges him on the road to Portsmouth.”
All eyes went to Thomas.
“I’ll teach him what I’m able.” Thomas patted the hilt of his sword. “But only Miguel can execute the moves.” He paused, then blurted out, “Of course, I’d be happy to accompany him—”
“You’re needed in the business,” Jorge said firmly. “I need someone trustworthy with the money and inventory at home.”
“What about Dunstan?” Thomas retorted.
“Dunstan travels much,” Jorge said.
Benjamin said, “Uncle, I could cancel my overseas travel if I am needed.”
“Nonsense,” Jorge said. “Go to Venice.”
Thomas said, “But—”
“Enough,” answered Jorge.
“Father, there is not a man alive who has my skill in swordplay, my swiftness, my strength—”
“Quiet,” Jorge yelled. “I’ve heard your pleas before and again I reject them. Thomas, my son, if we have not the funds with which to bribe, all our efforts are for naught. Besides, Tommy, I want you whole until Leah is healthy enough to deliver to you a fine son.”
Biting his lip, Thomas sank back in his chair. Dunstan grinned.
“By the way, Tommy,” he said. “Where is your wife?”
Thomas reddened with anger. As if the bastard didn’t know.
“Leah has taken rest with her parents in Turkey,” Aben Ayesh answered for Thomas. “She’s due back in England during autumn.”
Dunstan said, “Tut, tut. The lass was sorely worn out by the birth of another daughter!”
Thomas bolted up and drew his sword.
“Stow thy peace, Thomas,” shouted Jorge. “And quit thy baiting words, Dunstan. Such animosity between brothers! Tis ungodly! Learn a lesson from Miguel and Raphael—God rest his soul. Now there were true brothers.”
Shamefaced, Thomas returned to the floor. The men sat in silence for a moment. Aben Ayesh asked wearily,
“Any questions about the operation?”
Again, shakes of the head.
Aben Ayesh said, “We need many more citizen’s papers. We have left only six official sets.”
“Grace is completing a set as we speak,” said Dunstan.
“Maria had done two,” Jorge said.
“We still are short,” Aben Ayesh said.
“I shall tell Sarah to get to work,” said Roderigo. “Becca can work as well. The task shall occupy her thoughts, keep her mind off her woes.”
“Uncle,” Dunstan said, “I pray you, remind Rebecca to speak with discretion.”
“Has she been indiscreet?” Roderigo asked.
Dunstan hesitated, then said, “She’s a woman. All women have loose tongues. And that can be fatal, especially since you house that worm, de Andrada.”
Roderigo grimaced at the mention of the name. De Andrada, Don Antonio’s former “trusted” spy, wanted by Don Antonio for being a traitor. A snake Lopez was forced to feed and shelter because de Andrada had managed to learn too much about their operations. Though de Andrada had acted grateful for the help, Lopez knew he could never be trusted.
“I shall remind Becca of the virtue of silence,” Roderigo said.
“We must pray,” Aben Ayesh said, rising. “Instead of our individual meditations, let us say our morning prayers together—as if we were a minyan.”
“Morning prayers?” Dunstan said. “It’s still night.”
“Would you rather say them when the servants are awake and their ears are open to our chanting?” Roderigo said.
Dunstan turned red.
“Excuse my impertinence, Father,” Benjamin said, “but do not we need ten to be a minyan?”
Roderigo said, “We are only six in number but thousands in spirit. God will forgive us.”
The men stood and faced the eastern side of the chamber. Jorge extinguished the torches, leaving only the faint, orange flame of candlelight. Silhouettes of faces projected onto the walls. Head down, Aben Ayesh began the prayer of kaddish over Raphael’s soul—a supplication praising God’s infinite power and wisdom. He whispered the blessing so the servants could not hear. But in truth, he knew he needn’t have vocalized the blessing at all. God hears everything.
Chapter 5
Manuel de Andrada knew they were plotting his demise. He could feel evil vapors swirling about his room. It was the same aura he had sensed before his defection from Don Antonio’s service, and it filled him with dread.
Twas only a matter of time.
He shivered under his counterpane, his winter nightshirt itchy, sewn from frieze cloth—a pauper’s garment. Marry, how it irritated his skin! Dr. Lopez had not the decency to give him one woven from flax, the miserable wight. Throwing the blanket atop his head, de Andrada bunched himself into a tight knot and began his ritual curses.
Curse Don Antonio—his former master. A man he had fought for, spied for, a man whom he had almost given his life for…Almost.
Curse King Philip—a weak old wretch whose generosities were as shriveled as his face. De Andrada remembered his last visit with His Majesty,
kissing the bony hand, sitting at the side of the black, velvet wheelchair. The royal features had been as hard as stone, the eyes as small as a rat’s. Cold, calculating, and stingy. Did the King not recognize the service that he—Manuel de Andrada—had performed for him?
He had spied against Don Antonio for Philip, had even bribed a helmsman to deliver the Pretender to the Throne of Portugal into the hands of the Spanish king. But the note had been found. Though written in special ink, it had been deciphered. His treason against Don Antonio—who was now in exile, somewhere in Eton, de Andrada had last heard—had landed him six months in the Tower.
Had that been part of Lopez’s plan to do him in? Had Lopez only rescued him because he had known about the doctor’s mission? Had Lopez been afraid that he—de Andrada—would be of loose lips?
He thought a moment.
No, de Andrada thought, decidedly not. Lopez had been a true healer back then—kind and true-hearted. It was Lopez who’d secured his release from prison. The doctor had taken him into his own home, fed him fresh meats, clothed him in vestments that didn’t itch. Had Roderigo not intervened in his behalf, he would have been behalved.
But curse Lopez now. He had dealt deceptively with his faithful servant—Manuel de Andrada—just like the rest. Though Lopez professed that he was a guest in his house, without any funds, de Andrada was completely at Lopez’s mercy. Aye, the doctor had turned into a witch doctor. Roderigo Lopez had beguiled him, forced him to act as a go-between with the King of Spain, inveigled him into his Jew-saving intrigues. And now, after months of dedicated work, de Andrada was being discarded, tossed out the window like shit in a chamberpot.
He sighed. In his life he’d been employed by so many, turned traitor to so many. It was hard to keep them all sorted.
How would the doctor arrange the death—his death? An accidental fall from a horse? Did not the groom look at him with naughty eyes? When had that been? A week ago? Two weeks? Aye, when Saturn had been in Pisces, the sun sign of his birth. A bad omen!
He rolled over onto his back and groaned.
Poison perhaps? Aye, poison was a favorite pastime of the physician to the Queen. De Andrada remembered too clearly Lopez’s verbal offer to poison Don Antonio. Aye, Lopez denied it to the world, and nothing in writing could prove otherwise, but de Andrada had heard the words uttered from the witch doctor’s lips. Bottles of potions were stored in Lopez’s still room. Jugs of Indian acacia. Barrels of distilled hemlock, ripening, aging like kegs of fine wine!
De Andrada trembled.
Suddenly all was clear. Why was he always the first to be served at dinnertime, at suppertime as well? It was not as they claimed—that he was a guest, and as such, honored with the first fruits of the kitchen. Nay, his portion of food had been tainted. Slow and painful poisoning!
The realization of why he’d been so ill of late.
Marry, it was so logical now. They hated him. Had he been invited to the house of the doctor’s brother-in-law?
No.
The reason for the exclusion?
It could only be treachery against him. He was wasting away on a stiff straw pallet, racked with fever and pain brought on by poison, while they laughed at his impending death.
He gasped and coughed, trying to bring up his supper. After a minute of retching, he gave up. The juices of his stomach had eaten up the stew hours ago.
The stew, he thought. He recollected tiny pieces of fleshy vegetable mixed with roots, leeks, and mutton.
Mad apple!
He shuddered. Had the stew contained eggplant as well as rat’s bane? Poison was not enough for the doctor’s delight. He was trying to drive him mad as well!
He’d take no more meals with the evil ones!
Suddenly he smiled. He was safe—at least temporarily. How much he had overheard! How many “secret” letters he had read! How much he knew! Lopez had disregarded his own rules—destroy anything written, talk softly, trust no one.
And then there was Nan Humbert—the Ames’s chambermaid. All he had to do was pray with the withered, Puritan biddy and she’d sing much about the family whispers. She had bigger and better ears than he did.
De Andrada started to plan his defense.
Who was Lopez pitted against? Who loathed Lopez as much as Don Antonio…. No, that wasn’t it. Who loathed Lopez more than he detested the doctor himself—and had the power to turn his hatred into action? Certainly not Lord Burghley. He and Lopez had become friends of late. Not his crookback son Robert Cecil either.
Who?
Why, the ambitious red-haired youth with the fair face and the choleric temperament.
Essex!
He would ingratiate himself with Essex. Offer to spy against Lopez in order to secure the lord’s favor.
The smile widened to a grin.
Essex. Such an impetuous cock. He’d do anything to advance his War Party. It was no secret that the lord longed for war—for an astounding military victory over Spain, with him at the head of the troops. How Essex hungered for power, the cheers and adulation of his countrymen, the admiration of his peers. How he ached to win the hand of Eliza. Oh yes, it was the crown of England that the lord desired. It was no secret at all. Even Her Majesty knew his wants.
But the High Treasurer, Lord Burghley, and Lopez were obstacles, both secretly advocating peace with the King of Spain to Her Majesty. Lord Essex was bound to welcome his help, would receive Manuel de Andrada with much cheer, heaping angels upon him as payment for well-executed spying.
Of course, there was the small matter of Antony Bacon, Essex’s spy master. De Andrada would have to convince him that he was trustworthy. Bacon was a clever man, exceedingly wary. But hadn’t he, Manuel de Andrada, fooled other equally clever men? Bacon was but one small obstacle to overcome.
De Andrada felt confident and congratulated himself for a scheme so brilliant.
He hugged himself harder, tighter, squeezing his knees against his chest.
Eat no food. Not even the fruit in the bowl.
But he was hungry.
One bite of apple?
Nay, do not succumb. It is all vile.
A half bite?
Not even a lick.
He would not give up without a fight! He would scrape and bite and claw and kick, but he would not give up without a fight. If he would lose his head, so would a witch doctor.
Rebecca lay atop her feather mattress, wondering how her father was planning her future. She had no idea how late it was as she couldn’t see the sand glass on the mantel opposite her bed. Yet she refused to light her candle, consuming solace once again from the darkness. Her chamber walls, like those in her uncle’s Great Hall, had been draped in black cloth, hiding the arras work and tapestries. She felt as though she were sleeping in a bat’s cave. The sole illumination came from moonbeams streaking through her bedchamber’s window. They fell upon the table next to her bed, highlighting the pitcher and washbasin on the tabletop. Outside, the winds whistled through the shutters, swayed the boughs of the newly budded trees, kicking up eddies of dirt and dust, a moving sketch done in charcoal and framed by the window sash.
Her future. If only she had some control over her destiny. Her life, always in the hands of another—her elders, her cousins, her brother, God—in any hands but hers. Were her hands any less capable than Benjamin’s, than Dunstan’s or Thomas’s? But her hands had the misfortune to be attached to the body of a woman.
She swallowed back tears, cursed her lot in life. A moment later she broke into sobs, feeling sudden shame at her rantings. Why had she been allowed to live and her betrothed taken in his prime?
Poor Raphael, how did you meet your end?
Rebecca had loved him because it had been her duty. She had addressed him with a modulated tone of voice, greeted him with smiles, suffered his dark moods in silence. She knew it was his work, not she, that had been his true passion. Life was a mysterious animal. In the end it was his passion that did him in. She worried that the passio
n might also destroy her dear Miguel.
Miguel was her distant cousin but her brother in spirit. He’d never been a lover of women. Yet he was also a dutiful son. If their fathers wished them to wed, they would wed. And what a mockery that would be.
There was a knock on her door, her mother’s whisperings. Rebecca forced herself upright, unlocked the door, then fell back atop her counterpane. Sarah Lopez, clad in her bedclothes, entered the bedchamber and sat on her daughter’s mattress. A moonbeam fell across her face, turned her cheeks ghostly white. Her eyes looked so sad, but Rebecca had never remembered a day when they had looked happy. Sarah brushed her waist-length gray hair off her shoulders and touched Rebecca’s hand. It was rigid and cold.
“Under the covers, Becca,” Sarah ordered gently. “I’ll not allow you to grow ill from the frigid air. Tis a tomb inside here—dark and wintry. I’ll call the chambermaid and have her rekindle the hearth immediately.”
Rebecca squeezed her mother’s hand. “How can I allow myself warmth and comfort when Raphael sits for eternity in an icy bed?”
Sarah pulled back the bedcovers. “Inside, little one, I prithee.”
Rebecca slithered underneath the down blanket. Sarah drew the spread up to her daughter’s chin.
“I’m not half the clever wordsmith that you are, Becca,” spoke Sarah. “I’ve stayed up for hours trying to find proper words of solace, yet my mind is as empty as a newborn babe’s. Tell me what to do to comfort you.”
Rebecca didn’t answer. Her mother’s voice, though soothing, sounded so weary. It saddened Rebecca to think that she’d brought any more woes to her mother. She embraced her mother and told her she loved her.
Sarah said, “You are my joy, Becca. All I desire is happiness for you and Benjamin.”
Rebecca knew this to be the truth. She’d never seen her mother engaged in idle play. Sarah’s life revolved around Father and his activities, around her and Ben.
Rebecca asked, “Has Father made mention to you of my future?”
The Quality of Mercy Page 6