The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  Rebecca was touched. She said, “I’m not with child, Captain. And by my troth, my betrothed will not die. But I thank you for your kind offering.”

  The winds began to kick up, filling the previously slackened sails with air. At last, thought Rebecca. Motion. Krabbey rose.

  “The winds call me to my helm, and I got me business to do,” he said. “The clouds’ll be asquallin’ afore I can spit. I won’t go frettin’ none over your stubbornness. Me proposal was just a thought.” He grabbed his groin again. “By tomorrow night, I pledge you that it won’t be goin’ hungry.”

  Rebecca bowed her head demurely, waited until Krabbey was gone before she looked up again. She would have laughed to herself had not Miguel shivered violently in her arms.

  As the Bounty came in to dock at Dover, Rebecca held back tears. Her land! Her country! The steel sky, the pelting rain suddenly seemed not gloomy but glorious, renewing. When the boat was anchored, she stood a moment upon the deck, shivering, her arms wrapped tightly about her chest, breathing in English air. Shakespeare came up from behind, threw a cloak around her shoulders and handed her Reina. Rebecca covered the little girl and ran for the protection of an overhang. Fifteen minutes later Shakespeare reemerged with Thomas, who supported himself with two iron bars for walking sticks. His movements were slow, methodical, and painful. Rebecca noticed he winced with each step, but he refused more than once to accept help from Shakespeare. The two of them made their way over to Rebecca and Reina.

  Shakespeare said, “Dunstan and I will stay with Miguel on the Bounty. Your betrothed sleeps deeply, and I think it unwise to wake him. Best if you take your cousin and the girl back to the Flounder, and we’ll join you as soon as we’re able to move Miguel.”

  Rebecca nodded, then regarded Thomas struggling with the sticks. She said, “We should get a hackney—”

  “Rubbish!” Thomas cried out. “It’ll harden my leg muscles to walk.”

  “Tommy, I—”

  “Let’s go!” Thomas commanded her. “I said I’m well.”

  Rebecca knew by her cousin’s tone that she had no choice but to listen.

  It took them an hour to trudge to their rented chamber—mercifully prepared, the hearth ablaze. Thomas fell onto the bed. His face had hardened from two days at sea, his skin no longer held a youthful blush. His cheeks were chapped and rough, his eyes sunken and old.

  Rebecca removed the little girl’s wet clothing, wrapped her in a blanket and set her by the fireplace. Reina curled into a ball, stuck her thumb in her mouth and fell asleep. Rebecca approached Thomas and began to strip him of his shredded clothing. In a flash he was on top of her, his chest weighing heavily on her body, his hands under her doublet. Rebecca froze with shock. He clamped his lips over hers, then as abruptly as he came upon her, he pulled his mouth away.

  “Pray, Becca,” he whispered. “Get me a whore.”

  She whispered she would.

  “And flasks of port,” Thomas added. He removed his hands from Rebecca’s breasts and held her cheeks. “Anything to distract me from the pain in my leg.”

  Rebecca embraced her cousin, brought his head down to her chest. “Poor Tommy.” She stroked his cheek. “Need you further help in removing your clothes?”

  He shook his head and rolled off her. “I only have need of a stew and stupor.”

  Thomas was noisy, the whore even more boisterous, but Rebecca could have slept through it all had her mind been at peace. But her thoughts were with Miguel, with her father as well. She lay stretched out on the floor, her back to the fireplace, Reina in her arms. With an exasperated sigh, she brought the blanket over her head.

  Across the room the whore laughed.

  Shut up! Rebecca thought. God, just shut up!

  Again the whore let out peals of raucous laughter, then said something lewd to Thomas. The trull had an irritating squeaky voice! Rebecca stuck her fingers in her ears and cursed her throbbing head. She could feel the pounding of her heart in her brain through her fingertips. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, each beat fireworks inside her head.

  Again the whore squealed like a sow. Thomas was giggling now, speaking in a slurred voice. Rebecca wrapped Reina in the blanket, then stood up and glared at the stew.

  “Out!” she shouted, pointing to the door.

  The whore made a face to Thomas. “What’s sticking in her craw?”

  There it was! That tinny voice again!

  Rebecca marched over to the bed and pulled the whore from the sheets. The room stunk of sweat and spilled seed.

  “Get your clothes on and leave!” Rebecca ordered her.

  “You’re naked,” Thomas said to his cousin.

  “Go to sleep, Tommy,” Rebecca said sourly. She pulled a chemise over the whore’s body.

  “I can dress myself!” the trull protested.

  “Not fast enough!” Rebecca answered, slapping a bodice onto the whore’s chest.

  “What’d I do?” the whore said. She began to whine.

  “I’ve never seen you naked,” Thomas said, grinning stupidly at Rebecca.

  “Your brother is very good,” the whore squeaked out.

  “I rejoice with the knowledge that he hath pleased you,” Rebecca said, lacing up the last of the trull’s points. She pushed the whore out the door.

  “Go to sleep,” she repeated.

  He flung off the sheets and patted the mattress. “Come to me.”

  Rebecca ignored him and slipped on her chemise. The room was dark except for the dwindling fire that flickered in the hearth. She placed a log on the flame and lit the rush candles in the wall sconces, wondering what was taking the others so long.

  Thomas said, “Pour me another tankard. Then come and join me. I have need of company.”

  “You have need of sleep.” But she dutifully opened another bottle and gave it to Thomas. She pulled back the sheets, picked up a candle and examined his wounded leg.

  Thomas grew serious. “How does it fare?” he asked.

  Eventually she said, “No evidence of gangrenous tissue. I do believe that you will be whole-bodied in no time.”

  Thomas smiled with relief.

  “The pain is bad?” she asked.

  “This scratch? Bah!”

  Rebecca stood and began to pace.

  “Sit with me,” Thomas bade her.

  “I cannot stay still. My mind is too preoccupied. I’m going back to the boat. I find this uncertainty maddening.”

  “No,” Thomas protested.

  “I’ll be but a half hour at the most. Reina’s asleep.”

  “What will you wear? Your clothes are soaked.”

  “No matter. It rains furiously outside. Even dry clothing would become sopping wet in a matter of minutes.”

  “Don’t leave, Becca. Wait another hour. Perhaps they’ll be along shortly.”

  Rebecca paused. “A half hour,” she said.

  “A half hour, then,” Thomas said. “Sit with me.”

  She shook her head and lay down next to Reina.

  “The floor is hard,” Thomas said.

  “I’m comfortable. I’ll keep guard over the little one.”

  “You avoid me.”

  Rebecca didn’t answer. Fifteen minutes later she sat up and listened. “I hear someone coming. Dear God, let it be them.” She ran to open the door.

  Shakespeare entered, holding Miguel over his shoulders. Dunstan cradled the lifeless Pedro in his arms and carried their provisions on his back. The men were dripping wet, as if they were watercolors bleeding on canvas.

  Rebecca said, “Let me help you out of your clothes!”

  Thomas shifted to one side and Shakespeare gently placed Miguel on the bed, facedown. Rebecca knelt by her betrothed’s side. He was a breath away from death.

  Dunstan placed the little boy’s body in the corner of the room then dropped the bags onto the floor. Shakespeare stripped naked then dressed quickly. The new clothes were limp, damp with moisture, yet they felt warm upon his chill
ed skin. He said,

  “Krabbey awaits us downstairs for cheery company and supper. We dare not displease the good captain. Do you want to go down or should I?”

  Dunstan pulled off sopping breeches. He said, “You go. Make sure the fire in his stomach is well doused. And buy him a whore. I’ll join the two of you in a few minutes.”

  Shakespeare nodded and left.

  “Get me my vials, cousin,” Rebecca said to Dunstan. Her voice was weak with despair. “I’ll see what I can prepare for Miguel.”

  Dunstan stood and sniffed. His head began to pound, his hands began to shake. Anger blurred his vision, dulled his reasoning. He took a deep breath and calmly asked Rebecca, “Why does this room smell like a brothel? And pray, cousin, what do you wear under your chemise?”

  Rebecca glared back at him, angered by the insinuation.

  “What has passed in this room?” Dunstan asked.

  Stupid ass, she thought. Impetuous fool, always seeing the worst in people because he was such a woodcock himself.

  She said, “My potions, I pray you, Dunstan.”

  “What were the two of you doing?” Dunstan asked menacingly.

  Rebecca shrieked, “Ask your brother, if your curiosity is so overwhelming.”

  Dunstan burned with hatred. He grabbed Rebecca by the hair and ripped her chemise from her body. “You whore.” He slapped her across the face several times in succession. “You dirty, disgusting whore!”

  “Dunstan!” Thomas interjected. “God’s blood, you ass, what are you doing!”

  Dunstan shouted, “You’ve been fucking my brother!” He slapped her again and shoved her into the wall. Rebecca slumped to the floor and moaned. Reina began to cry.

  “And fornicating in front of the child, yet?” Dunstan screamed. He fell on top of Rebecca and began to choke her, felt himself squeezing the life out of her pretty little throat. Just deserts, the worthless slut! And to think he had ever loved her.

  Rebecca was turning purple, clawing at his hands. Dunstan didn’t even feel the gouges she raked into his skin. Only a moment later did he realize Thomas’s arm was looped around his neck, forcing him to release her. Rebecca held her throat and rolled about the floor, sucking up air.

  “Are you moonstruck!” Thomas cried. “Stop it!”

  “Let me go!” Dunstan screamed, thrashing about in Thomas’s arms. He managed to pull out his dagger. “I’ll kill her! And you as well if you get in my way!”

  “Stop fighting me, damn you!” Thomas yelled. “I bedded a whore up here! A whore, Dunstan, not Becca! Becca found me a whore! I asked her to find me one! She’s been doing nothing but worrying about your welfare! She would have gone back to the boat had I not stopped her!”

  Dunstan stopped struggling and dropped his dagger. His head began to spin. Thomas loosened his grip.

  “I did not bed her,” Thomas said. “She did not bed me. I had a whore! Understand?”

  “Let go of me!” Dunstan ordered.

  “Swear you’ll not lay—”

  “Let me go,” Dunstan said wearily. “I’ve regained my wits.”

  Thomas hesitated, then released Dunstan from his hold. He limped over to Rebecca. Her face was puffy, cuts had surfaced upon her brow and lips. Her nose was bloody. She was breathing easier now, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  “Do you need help?” Thomas asked.

  “No.” Her voice was barely audible. “Pray, go comfort the child.”

  Thomas wiped tears from Rebecca’s face with his fingertips, his eyes filled with pity and guilt. “Let me help you to your feet.”

  Rebecca insisted, “Go to Reina.” She crawled over to the bags and began rummaging through them for her vials, pulling out several jars. She slipped on another chemise, then walked shakily back to Miguel and knelt beside him.

  “I need more light, Dunstan,” she said.

  Dunstan brought her the candle and regarded her face. The left eye was red and swollen. He felt his stomach buck with self-revulsion.

  Rebecca wiped her bloodied hands on her chemise. She said, “I need water. I cannot work with sticky hands.”

  “Aye,” Dunstan said.

  After Rebecca washed her hands, she examined Miguel’s wound. It was closed shut and topped with a hard node of green pus. Laudable pus, the Gentiles called it, a sign of healing. But Grandmama had taught her that it was a river of death. To break the skin, to send the pus into the blood was as harmful as breathing evil vapors.

  Radiating from the swelling beneath the skin were spider-webs of green lines. She dabbed Miguel’s brow, then held his face in her hands. His complexion was wan and pasty, his breath sour. His hands were as hard and cold as ice. She pried apart his chilled, dry lips and forced some poppy syrup into his mouth. Miguel sputtered and coughed out the first sip, but was able to swallow the second and third.

  His body was heavy with bad humors. Rebecca knew she’d have to cut him open and remove the blade from his back. She ordered Dunstan to go down and fetch Shakespeare, as he would need help in holding Miguel down. She also told him to scrounge up knives from the inn’s kitchen.

  “If the scullery maids and cooks be penurious, offer them a groat or two,” she said. “That should increase their generosity immensely.”

  Dunstan nodded.

  “Oh, and get an ice pick,” Rebecca added, “and a whetstone as well. And a needle and thread.”

  Dunstan stared at her, his feet unable to move.

  Rebecca said, “Go, go! Make haste! Every second counts!”

  Dunstan still hesitated. He said, “Becca, I—”

  “Stow you, Dunstan,” Rebecca said sharply. “Just do as I say. For once.”

  Dunstan sighed and shut the door behind him. Rebecca closed her eyes and prayed to God for strength, fortitude to do what her father had done every day since he’d become a doctor, what she knew her grandam could do with her eyes closed. She was such a weak woman. Please God, the Creator of miracles, give her the will to do her duty. After she finished her personal entreaties, she began what Jews always do when death has its sucker under the wretched’s skin. She began to recite tehilim—the psalms of King David—by rote.

  Chapter 39

  “God’s Sointes!” Shakespeare exclaimed when he saw her. Her face! It had been whole just a moment ago. “What happened? Troth, your eye—”

  “I’m well,” Rebecca said flatly. “I stumbled and hit the floor in a rather ungainly manner. The eye is not beautiful but it’s functional. I see clearly.”

  Shakespeare looked at her, then at Thomas—his face expressionless. Shakespeare stammered, “We should summon another surgery doctor. Rebecca cannot—”

  Rebecca interrupted, assuring him it was not necessary. Though Shakespeare knew she was lying, he did not press her for the truth.

  He embraced her tightly and whispered, “I love thee.”

  “By my life, I love thee,” Rebecca said, hugging him back. “I’m scared, Willy. What if Miguel dies under my hand?”

  “He won’t.” Shakespeare studied her face. It was bruised, as if someone had slapped her repeatedly. The skin around her throat held the imprints of fingertips. He looked at Thomas again. This time the younger knight avoided his gaze and lowered his head.

  Shakespeare felt himself go hot, rigid with anger. He squeezed his hands into fists, then looked at Rebecca.

  “Thou wert whole when I left thee with thy cousins. Only Thomas or Dunstan could have done this to thee, and I warrant the guilty one stands not in this room…. I’ll kill him.”

  Rebecca knew he meant it. She said, “This is not the time.”

  Shakespeare didn’t answer right away. He breathed slowly, trying to control his rage. Finally he said. “Retribution is a well-seasoned actor who knows his proper time and place. If peace be possible, peace thou shalt have—for now.” He kissed her forehead and held her hands. “Miguel shall not die, Rebecca. These fingers shall be as crocheting hooks, knotting up the unraveling caused by the bas
tard Spanish. I’ve witnessed thy magical needlepoint on Thomas, my love. Indeed, thou art a wizard—making that which was rent once again inseamed. Thou hast no need of hap, Becca, as thou possesses God-granted skill.”

  Rebecca squeezed his hands and lay her head on his chest. His words, so soothing. How she loved him.

  Dunstan came into the room, bearing an assortment of blades, towels, and a whetstone. He instantly noticed Shakespeare’s murderous eye and dropped the knives, a cleaver nicking the tip of his boot.

  “Oaf,” Shakespeare said. “Pick them up.”

  Dunstan sneaked a furtive glance at Rebecca, at Thomas, who sat cuddling Reina on the floor. All were averting their eyes. Dunstan swallowed, straightened his spine and said to Shakespeare, “Remember thy place—”

  Shakespeare sprang. He clamped his arm around Dunstan’s neck and held a dagger at his throat.

  “You live at the insistence of your cousin. Do you understand what I am saying?” Shakespeare whispered.

  Dunstan said to Thomas, “Wilt thou allow this stranger a hand upon thy brother?”

  Thomas turned away. Shakespeare compressed his arm around Dunstan’s throat, who began to cough.

  “Let him go, Shakespeare,” Thomas finally said.

  Shakespeare eased the pressure and said, “If ever a wee scratch finds its way upon your cousin, you’re a dead man.”

  “To the Devil!” Dunstan answered.

  Shakespeare said, “I’ve not explained myself sufficiently to thee.”

  Dunstan said nothing.

  “Answer me!” Shakespeare shouted.

  “I have ears, man!” Dunstan said. “I hear you speak. Let me go.”

  Shakespeare released him with a shove. Dunstan stumbled to the floor. He rose slowly, then bent over Thomas and spat in his face.

  Thomas wiped the glob of phlegm from his cheek and said, “Had Rebecca been my wife, I would have killed you for what you’d done. Shakespeare showed commendable restraint.”