The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  “Sarah is a beautiful name,” Rebecca said.

  “I thought so.” The old woman sighed. “Those days were different, Becca. Darker. We had no organized smuggling as we have now. At that time twas easier for me to move back into Portugal than to smuggle the girls out. The sentries at the dock were very wary of children leaving the country—almost a sure sign that a Jew was trying to escape and taking their children with them.”

  Grandmama resumed her tale. After she was smuggled back into Portugal, she assumed many names to avoid detection by the Holy See, moved at least a dozen times. Luckily, their constant relocations didn’t arouse a great deal of suspicion, because her husband had been a merchant and traveled a lot.

  The old woman said, “But the need of a continual watchful eye proved to be very exhausting. My life almost collapsed when your stepgrandfather died. I…I didn’t see how we could go on.”

  Rebecca held the old woman’s trembling hand, kissed it gently.

  “Maria was twelve,” Grandmama continued. “She’d almost reached her majority, thank God. Both she and your mother were beautiful girls. Twas easy to find them proper husbands—men who still retained the old ways. Through Uncle Solomon, I was able to marry Maria to Uncle Jorge.

  “Your mother was our first step into the business of smuggling Jews. Through Uncle Solomon, your father expressed a desire to marry my Sarah. I agreed. We packed your mother in a crate and shipped her out to England, right under King John’s nose. Twice we were almost caught at the docks. Yet we continued undeterred. Thank God, we were successful. Next, Roderigo and Jorge conducted my safe passage out of the country. Twas an ordeal, as I couldn’t walk. Jorge had to carry me to the docks on his back! He slipped me onto the boat, stowed me in a hatch in the deep hours of the night.”

  “Blessed be God, you made it.”

  “Yes. And once I was secure in England under your father’s wing, Jorge and Maria escaped to the Isle. Thanks be to the Holy One, we are now all together! Your father and Uncle Jorge had sworn to help others, if God would help them in their efforts—a vow they had taken and had kept, at great expense. But God shall see them through these difficult times.”

  “Amen,” Rebecca answered. She thought about her father’s arrest, but the pain was too intense. Pushing the thought out of her mind, she knitted her brows in confusion. “How old was mother when she married?”

  “Ten,” said Grandmama.

  “Ten?”

  “Your father didn’t touch her until she was fourteen. A promise he made to me and Uncle Solomon. Though Mother be his legal wife before the state and God, Father was an honest man. Ach, your father, my son-of-marriage, has his peculiarities. But never will I speak ill of him who has treated my daughter as a princess.”

  Rebecca’s eyes began to mist.

  Grandmama said, “Now, you’ve heard your history. Go and get some sleep.”

  “Shall I sleep with you?”

  The old woman shook her head. “I’m like the wolf. I thrive in solitude. Go upstairs to your bed. Say tehilim for your father’s release.”

  “I have,” Rebecca said. “Many times.”

  “Say them again.”

  Rebecca rose, emotionally drained and physically exhausted, overwhelmed by her grandam’s revelations. She was the granddaughter of a woman she worshiped, but also the granddaughter of a whore, her mother’s paternal bloodline a blank page. Rebecca wiped the old woman’s forehead with her sleeve. The hag slumped in her bed and said,

  “Let me rest, girl. Perhaps tonight I’ll find eternal peace.”

  “Grandmama, don’t—”

  “Sha, girl. I was never afraid of dying. Twas living that always caused me fright.”

  Chapter 41

  A nightmare had jolted Rebecca awake.

  Miguel was dead.

  The night winds and rains were furious and unforgiving. Icy drafts leaked through the windows and doors of the Lopez manor, emitting deep moans throughout its black hallways. Teeth chattering, Rebecca drew her shawl tightly around her nightdress and cupped her hand around the waning flame of her candlestick. The house seemed ghostly, and fear pricked her skin. But it was idiotic to feel afraid. She’d witnessed more peril in the last few days than most men had experienced in a lifetime. Yet here she was in her own home, safe, out of harm’s grasping fingers, and she couldn’t ward off her demons.

  She hurried to Miguel’s chambers, and to her relief, her betrothed was peacefully asleep, his chest rising and lowering in steady rhythm, his brow dry and cool. His father Hector sat slumped in a chair, head back and mouth open. Hector’s superior attendant, Elija, kept watch over both of them. He told Rebecca that Hector had fallen asleep about an hour ago, after Miguel had awakened with enough strength to eat and drink aqua vitae. Rebecca asked about the young master’s medicines and Elija assured her that Miguel had taken all of them per her directions.

  Rebecca observed Miguel for an hour, absorbing his sweet slumber as if it were her own. After her nerves had steadied, she trudged back down the long hall to her quarters. A few feet from her bedchamber a sudden gust of wind extinguished her candle. Rebecca groped her way to her door, shutting it quietly and bolting the latch. Though her cell was as dark as mud, her nighttime vision was sufficiently acute to make out the oblong shape under her counterpane.

  A body.

  She gasped and covered her mouth, yet the shape reacted not to the noise, remaining still. As her eyes further adjusted, she gradually recognized the form, the sleeping face.

  Shakespeare.

  Rebecca smiled. She let her shawl fall to the floor and placed the candlestick upon a table. Tiptoeing to her bed, she lay her hand gently upon his shoulder. Her touch seemed magical. He began to unfold, blossoming like a flower in the sun. His eyes opened and his lips curved upward in a dazzling smile.

  Through the window blue veins of lightning arched across the sky. Thunder crackled a moment later. Rebecca hugged her shoulders.

  “I bid thee welcome to my tent,” Shakespeare said, holding open the covers. “Let me be thy sheik.”

  Rebecca buried herself in his arms. Shakespeare’s skin was hot and damp and warmed her own chilled flesh even through her nightdress. Her fingertips danced upon his naked arms and chest, upon the defined relief of his muscles. A flash of heat burst through her body as powerful as the lightning outside.

  Shakespeare gently lay her onto her back and lifted the hem of her gown to her waist. He lowered his body onto hers and wedged his thick legs between her slender limbs. He kicked off the blankets and felt for her breast, but his hands caressed only cloth.

  “Need you all this wrapping?” he whispered, tugging her nightdress upward.

  Rebecca shook her head.

  Shakespeare raised her gown over her head, tossed it aside, then lay his head upon her large, soft breasts. Rebecca arched her neck backward and moaned as she ran her fingers through his hair, stroked his neck and back. Shakespeare nibbled her flesh, kissed her nipples, sucked them, gently bit them. His hands reached up to her face and lips. Rebecca kissed the fingers, then lightly licked them one by one. Tears welled up in her eyes and streamed down her cheek. Shakespeare felt them drip upon his hand and looked at her.

  “Why dost thou weep?” he asked softly. “Do I offend thy chastity with my advances?”

  “Thou knowest my virtue has been blackened by dishonesty.”

  “To me thou art as honest as any maiden that lives.”

  “Tell me thy will,” Rebecca whispered.

  “To be thy Will,” Shakespeare answered.

  Rebecca smiled. “Aye. Thou are my Will.”

  Shakespeare said, “And thy will shall be as mine.”

  “Nay, not as hard as thine,” Rebecca said.

  Shakespeare laughed at the pun, softly kissed her cheek.

  Rebecca said, “My sweet William, play not with me like other false lovers.”

  “Is my love for thee so shallow, expressed solely under covers?”

  �
��My will from other men has suffered much taint.”

  “My will from thy will can suffer no more restraint.”

  “Aye, is it only burning lust that binds thy love to me?”

  “Hot flames first held the lock, tis true, but thy love now holds the key.”

  “And thou shall feel the same when dawn doth shine her light?”

  “As morning blossoms its petals of gold, shall my love grow in its might.”

  “Everything my hand hath touched has brought upon it strife.”

  “Yet by that hand thy betrothed breathes and shall live to call thee wife.”

  “If my father’s mishap should pass to thee and bring thee ill, I’d die.”

  Shakespeare smiled. He said, “Far be it me to cause the death of a delicate butterfly. Kiss me, maiden.”

  Rebecca brought his mouth onto hers, then gently bit his lips. She said, “I speak with deadly earnest, Willy. My father’s situation is grave, can bring us to our graves. For the sake of thine own sweet neck, thou knowest it’s best if thou knowest me not.”

  “Thou fled not from my dangers, my love. Remember how close the knife was to thy heart?”

  Rebecca thought back to that night, the black shadow poised above her, the point of a gleaming dagger perched over her chest. She shuddered.

  “Tell me what thou desires, Becca,” said Shakespeare. “By my will, it shall be done.”

  Rebecca lowered his head back onto her chest. Together they toasted imaginary glasses, drank the nectar of earthly delights.

  Shakespeare awoke screaming. He jerked himself into a sitting position and panted like a hound after the chase. Rebecca sat up and hugged him from behind.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  He shook his head, trying to slow his breathing. Dawn had cracked through a rain-streaked sky. The wrath of the winds hadn’t seemed to dwindle with the light of the sun. Rebecca looked at her hourglass. Gods, it was after six. How late she’d slept. Sound and sweet had been her dreams. Not so for her lover—her true lover.

  “What is it?” Rebecca repeated. “What demons have fouled thy precious sleep?”

  Shakespeare swallowed dryly. “Too much blood,” he said. “Too much death!” He ran his hands over his face, then exhaled into his palms. “I dreamt of fountains of blood. Of scarlet rivers emptying into an ocean of crimson. Twas as if Israel’s God had smitten His fury upon England as He’d done in Egypt, and had turned its waters red.”

  And more…

  Harry had been in the dream, drowning in a pool of red.

  Help me. Help me.

  Mackering throwing Shakespeare down a well filled with blood, closing the lid, leaving him wading in eternal blackness.

  “Only a dream,” Rebecca said, rubbing his shoulders. She kissed the nape of his neck. “Only a dream.”

  “Though my nightmares live solely in the cells of my brain, they are reality, Becca. My ghastly images are as tangible to me as if they existed in the flesh.”

  “Thou must tell thyself over and over that what thou seest is fantasy.”

  “I cannot allow myself to distinguish between fantasy and what is earthly. To do that would be to destroy what I am. No, those horrors that invaded my sleep are now a part of me—as real as thine own sweet arms. Yet there are ways of exorcising devilish spirits without denying their existence.”

  “Tell me.”

  “To destroy he who has infused them inside my head.”

  “What does thou meanest?” Rebecca said. “It were the evil Spanish who had planted such naughty seeds in the field of thy brain. Dost thou intend to destroy the nation?”

  “The Spanish?” Shakespeare let out a hollow laugh. “Ah, the bastard Spanish. No, my sweet Becca. Those aboard the galleon were not the Devil’s disciples—just men serving their ship, their captain, their country. I hold no ill will toward them, though they be responsible for a little boy who died in my arms. No, the Spanish have not placed Hell inside me. But there lives another, an asp that lies in wait, ready to strike the guileless when least expected. A man who woos evil by raping the honest. By my troth, shall he live until my vengeance with Harry is completed. Then by my hands shall he die.”

  “Which man?”

  “A man who had uncovered my nakedness—stripped from me time and dignity. Time can never be repaid, yet I could have forgiven him the days I’ve lost. But he stole from me with relish the fragile feather called manhood. He confined me to darkness, wished my body and spirit to wither and rot. Only the nourishment of a fruitful mind kept me alive. And I survived—but not unscathed. Fiendish dreams do haunt me, evil visions surround me. For these sufferings shall the wolverine pay with his life.”

  “Whose life?” Rebecca asked. He seemed to be talking as much to himself as to her. “Willy, what dost thou mean?”

  Shakespeare was silent. Rebecca saw the muscles of his jaw tighten. His hands were clenched into fists.

  She asked, “Willy, what happened to thee this past summer? Who has made thee taste such bitter herbs?”

  Shakespeare said nothing.

  “Tell me!” she begged. “Is it Mackering?”

  Shakespeare suddenly turned around and kissed her lips. “Dress quickly,” he said. “I hear thy mother bidding thee a good morrow.”

  “Thou dismisseth me as if I were some scullery maid!” Rebecca said.

  Shakespeare closed his eyes and brought her hand to his lips. “I love thee,” he said.

  Rebecca sighed. “I love thee too.” She nuzzled his neck with her nose and kissed him lightly, gently prodding his sides with her fingertips. Shakespeare laughed.

  “I’m easily tickled,” he said. “Stop that.”

  Rebecca continued. Shakespeare pushed her down onto her back and pinned her arms at her side.

  “Make thy move, wench,” he said.

  Rebecca knitted her brow a moment. “Thou hast forced me to take drastic measures, Shakespeare.”

  “Aye?”

  “Aye.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’ll have to employ my feet!”

  She swung her legs upward and tried to knee him in the belly, but he avoided her blow. Straddling her body, he pinioned her legs against the mattress with his own.

  Rebecca squirmed in his grasp, trying to free her hands. “Let me go,” she said.

  Shakespeare said, “First, make thy requests with lordly respect.”

  “Let me go!” Rebecca said.

  Surprised by the harshness in her voice, Shakespeare released her. Rebecca wriggled out from under him, sat up and rubbed her wrists.

  “Did I hurt thee?” he asked, concerned.

  Rebecca shook her head. “No. I greatly mislike being restrained.”

  “I see that,” Shakespeare answered. “My apologies. I was toying with thee. I meant no harm.”

  There was injury in his voice. Rebecca held his hand and answered, “I know. It’s just that…” She waved him off.

  “Tell me,” Shakespeare said.

  “I hate being weak,” Rebecca said. “I loathe being at the mercy of those stronger than I, depending on their good graces for my freedom.” She looked at Shakespeare. “I’ve spoiled the playfulness of thy mood. My apologies.”

  Shakespeare turned away and said, “I left my clothes in the spare bedchamber—where I was to have slept last night.”

  “I’ll get them,” Rebecca said. She paused, then said, “I don’t know the dreadful deed that Mackering had imposed unto thee, but I am sorry thou suffered at his hands, Will.”

  “I thank thee for thy sympathy,” Shakespeare said.

  Rebecca opened her arms and they held each other in a soothing embrace. She asked, “Did Mackering kill Harry?”

  Rebecca felt instant tension in her lover’s body. Shakespeare remained motionless for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so. But the uprightman had much to do with my mentor’s death. And so I shall have much to do with his.”

  Chapter 42
/>   Had Essex the power, he would have strangled the bitch. Her Royal Highness—a vicious old harpy with sour breath. She sat upon her throne as snug and smug as a roosting hen. The room was small, cold air leaking through the shutters. Wind dusted his forehead, rushes blew about his boots. But Essex was hot. Standing before the Queen, he could feel pools of perspiration under his doublet, the starch of his collar wet and sticky. He felt as taut as a bowstring yet he dared not take his eyes off Elizabeth. That would enrage her further.

  He sneaked a sidelong glance at Robert Cecil. The fawning woodcock—kneeling by the throne as still as a turd, the hump of his back almost level with the top of his head. He was as deformed in mind as he was in body. A malevolent gnome he was, the puny crookback, cast from his father’s mold—stupid, slow, plodding, a damn Puritan. And that ever-so-smug smile plastered upon his lips. How Essex wished he could smash Cecil’s face to bloody pulp. Nay, fists were for commoners. A rapier up the hole of his arse! And another down his throat! Skewered like a pig in an open pit. If the bitch would stop her railing, if she’d just leave the two of them alone—

  “Devereaux, I’m talking to you!” Elizabeth screamed.

  “Twould take a deaf man not to hear you, madam,” Essex said.

  Elizabeth bolted from her throne and yelled, “Then I must have my loyal and trusted physician, Dr. Lopez, examine your ears, as you seem not to attend to the words I speak! And kneel before your Queen lest I reprimand you for showing disrespect to your God-given monarch!”

  Essex felt himself go even hotter. Lowering the shin of his left leg behind him, he extended his right leg in front of him, bent at the knee, foot flat on the floor. He cringed at the thought of his staff waiting motionless by the door, watching his debasement. How could she do this to him, her favorite, in front of his servants!

  Cecil stifled a smile and regarded the Queen’s pet. Essex was simmering, his cheeks as red as his hair. The Earl’s dark eyes oozed with ire, his long but womanish beard dotted with spittle. His round nose was pink and wet, the pores open, the nostrils flaring. The starch of his collar was now running down his back. All in all, the young lord’s appearance was anything but noble.