The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  The more the Queen ranted, the easier Cecil breathed. They were two of a kind, Essex and the Queen—sanguinous cousins—red-hot hair and red-hot temperament. Yet this time the Queen was on his side, even though it was for the wrong reason. Cecil couldn’t understand Her Grace’s loyalty to this lowly Jew of a doctor, but anything he could use to give himself and Father the upper hand over Essex was well worth pursuing. So, allies with the Jew he and Father would be. Allies until Lopez’s political currency had been devalued to nothing.

  Elizabeth sat back down. She said, “Where is he now?”

  “Who?” Essex asked.

  “Lopez, you dolt!”

  “He’s still with my father at Burghley House, madam,” said Cecil.

  Elizabeth smiled at Essex. “I mention my doctor’s name and you flinch, Devereaux. Why is that?”

  A witch, thought Essex, just like her mother. She must have eyes in the back of her wig. Aye, the name Lopez enraged him. The man was a mite, yet for some ungodly reason the doggish Jew found favor with Her Grace. The beaked-nosed mutt and the steel-cunted bitch—what a duo they made. Arf, arf. And de Andrada! How he wished he could find that worm and crush him!

  Dr. Lopez’s house is full of treasonous evidence, de Andrada had assured him. Yet when they searched—

  “Unplug your ears, Devereaux!” screamed Elizabeth. “Your mistress speaks!”

  Essex could no longer hold his tongue. “Madam, you rebuke me in front of my loyal staff, in front of those that hold me in esteem—”

  “So much the pity for them that they have such poor judgment!” Elizabeth smoothed the stomacher of her gown. “You, Lord Essex, are a rash and temerarious youth! How dare you insult the honor of my trusted physician, Dr. Lopez, thereby insulting my honor as well!”

  Essex bit his lip, then said, “I was informed by trustworthy servants that madam’s physician was conducting matters of malice—”

  “Madam,” Cecil said. “If I may be so bold to interrupt Lord Essex—”

  Elizabeth said, “Spare the wind, Cecil, and make your point!”

  “We have conducted an extensive search of Dr. Lopez’s manor in Holborn. No matters of malice nor any writing of intelligence have been found in his home—”

  Essex said, “The Jewish doctor—”

  “Lopez was baptized, Essex,” the Queen interrupted him. “He attends state’s services on the sabbath. He is a good English Protestant.”

  A false Protestant, Essex thought. But something in the Queen’s voice told him not to press the issue. He said, “Lopez lets a cell in the city—at Mountjoy’s Inn, where he is said to conduct business of a secretive nature.”

  “Lord Burghley’s men searched his cell at Mountjoy’s as well,” Cecil said. “Aye, his business was most personal, madam. We found trinkets and toys belonging to various young ladies—none of whom were his wife. If Dr. Lopez be guilty of sedition because of this deceit, then almost all the noblemen of court should be arrested for treason!”

  “Enough of that, Cecil,” Elizabeth said. “You need not cast aspersions upon the faithful and true lords to prove your point.”

  “My apologies, madam—”

  “Yes, yes,” the Queen said, brushing Cecil off. “What say you to that, Devereaux? Shall we hang and quarter my faithful servant because his codpiece isn’t exclusively reserved for his wife? I’ve been told that your codpiece is like your arguments. Both suffer from loose points.”

  Essex boiled over with anger. “I had the man arrested not because of his diverse mistresses, but because he posed harm to Your Grace!”

  “And what harm is that, Essex?” Elizabeth said. “Your men made their own search of the man’s house. No secret papers were found upon the premises.”

  “He deals with the King of Spain, madam!” Essex bellowed. “Philip, King of Castile, your sworn enemy!”

  “Bah,” Elizabeth scoffed. “His Majesty is old, with brains as runny as his bowel movements—that’s not to infer that the Papist is harmless. Indeed not! But methinks the green monster of jealousy shines deeply in your eyes, Devereaux. How many times have you come to me hoping to win favor in my heart by relating to me rumors concerning the Papist monarch?”

  The Queen laughed out loud.

  “Haven’t you looked like an ass, dear lord, when I reported to you that Lopez had told me the selfsame rumors two days earlier. Your sources are slower of pace and dimmer of wit than those of my doctor.”

  Essex clenched his fists. “I still proclaim the man a spy!”

  “No one is interested in your proclamations. Least of all Your Grace,” said Elizabeth. “You mislike Lopez because he pleases me. Yes, he’s a drooling dog to be sure, but amusing. And the man has useful relatives throughout the world, Devereaux. That pleases me greatly.”

  Essex said, “Madam, if you’ll permit me to explain—”

  “Your explanations thus far have done anything but explain,” said the Queen. “Open your ears and listen. You might even learn a trick or two.” Elizabeth walked across the hall and stood in front of the hearth.

  “It’s frosty in here,” said Elizabeth. “Cecil, I grant you the honor of warming Your Grace by stoking the fire.”

  “By your will, madam,” Cecil said, picking up a poker.

  Essex started to rise. Elizabeth shouted out, “Stay where you are. Have I given you permission to stand?”

  Essex turned scarlet.

  Elizabeth said, “You loathe Dr. Lopez, Robert, because he advocates peace with Spain and stability for the English treasury. You, however, crave glory in a Spanish war and money from my purse strings. Well, young lord, you’ll have neither until you learn the meaning of the word temperance!”

  The Queen turned to Cecil and said, “Nothing has been proven against my servant, Dr. Lopez. He is to be released immediately!”

  “As you desire, madam.”

  “Tis what justice desires,” Elizabeth said. “You do know the meaning of that word, do you not, Lord Essex?”

  Essex could no longer contain his fury. He stood and turned his back to the Queen.

  “I haven’t dismissed you, Devereaux.”

  “Aye, you haven’t,” Essex said. “I’ve dismissed myself.” He stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind him. His servants stood at the doorway, trembling with fear. Elizabeth shooed them away and they quickly exited the hall.

  Elizabeth sighed. “What am I going to do with him, Cecil? The young lord needs a weathervane, as he possesses much misdirected wind. I fear that someday he’ll find his neck on the block.”

  Only savvy prevented Cecil from smiling.

  Rebecca stirred the mush, then fed a spoonful to Miguel. He immediately spit it out and demanded meat.

  “Meat isn’t good for your stomach,” Rebecca explained.

  Miguel said, “How can you feed me such vile victuals? Get me something edible. If not meat, fowl or fish.”

  “Miguel,” Rebecca said, “this is a special preparation that will promote healing—”

  “It’s slop!” Miguel answered angrily. “You’re to be my wife. Act dutiful and get me real food!”

  Rebecca shrugged off his harsh tongue. Five days ago they had been equals—fighting side by side. Now, suddenly, he’d become her master, she his nursemaid. He’d changed since the beginning of the mission, having become prone to fits of temper even before their harrowing experience. He had turned as moody as his brother. Ye gods, was her beloved friend, her confidant, turning into a prig like Dunstan? Was this her lot in life? To be the wife of a prig, and one who fancied men at that?

  Miguel noticed Rebecca’s tired expression and softened his tone. “This muck is unpalatable, Becca,” he said. “Taste it.”

  “I have,” she said.

  “Well, I can’t stomach it,” he said crossly.

  “Very well. I’ll bring you something else.”

  Rebecca stood, but Miguel took her hand and held her back. Kissing it softly, he said, “I’m not hungry anyway.�
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  “You must eat, Miguel,” Rebecca said. “Your father hopes that you’ll be well enough to make a brief appearance at the festivities tonight.”

  “Come down to the hall, carried—or in a wheeled chair—like an invalid?” Miguel said incredulously.

  “The chair is only temporary,” Rebecca said. “You’ll be able to walk soon.”

  Miguel knocked the bowl out of Rebecca’s hand. “I’d rather die than present myself a cripple! Tell my father that I’m sore with pain and temper and I’ll have nothing to do with any banquet. Though God knows the extent of my gratitude concerning your father’s freedom.”

  “By your wishes,” Rebecca said.

  They sat in silence.

  Miguel squirmed, then announced, “Becca, I am born with a curse. The Almighty knows I’ve tried, but I cannot change. Though my head tells me to love women, my body keeps pulling me to men. That’s not to imply I cannot function as a man. I’ve had diverse women—”

  “Miguel, let’s not discuss this now,” Rebecca said.

  “I love you as a sister,” Miguel said, ignoring her. “You understand my needs, I understand yours, Becca.”

  “Rest,” Rebecca said. “We’ll talk about this when you’re stronger.”

  “I’ve much strength!”

  “I know. All I meant to say was—”

  Miguel blurted out, “You didn’t sleep alone last night.”

  Rebecca felt her body stiffen. So that was the reason for this conversation. Yes, Miguel understood her womanly needs as long as they weren’t acted upon.

  “So?” she said coldly.

  “You cannot slap me in the face, Becca!” Miguel exclaimed. “You cannot embarrass me in front of servants and staff! How much I’d suffer if such indiscretion should come to my father’s ears! Is this your idea of being a goodly wife?”

  “I never asked to be married!” she cried. “I never wanted to marry—not to you, or even your brother for that matter. But no one was ever interested in what I wanted!” Her voice suddenly wilted. “All I desire is peace. What do you want from me? To shut out my womanhood at eighteen?”

  Miguel sank back into his propped pillows, feeling sapped and short of breath. Stabs of pain shot through his back and sides. “I feel hot,” he said.

  Rebecca felt his forehead. Miguel had refused to eat his medicinal mush and the fever had returned. She excused herself, returned ten minutes later with a leather pouch full of ice and placed it on his forehead.

  “Where’s Shakespeare?” Miguel asked.

  “Tenacity has always been your strongpoint,” Rebecca said. “Shakespeare’s been holed up in the North Chamber since dawn, writing…something. I’ve invited him to stay for Father’s homecoming.”

  “And he accepted the invitation?”

  “Yes.” Rebecca looked Miguel in the eye. “Shakespeare fought with us, side by side. He deserves to partake in the banqueting. Tomorrow he returns to his rented room within the walls of London.”

  Miguel said, “You still love him, don’t you?”

  Rebecca felt a sudden rush of emotion. With a trembling voice she answered, “With all my heart.”

  “And he loves you?”

  “He says as much.”

  “And you believe him?”

  Rebecca said, “Miguelito, his words are gold.”

  “Yes,” Miguel said. “They’re beautiful, but are they solid?”

  “They’re true,” Rebecca answered.

  Miguel sighed. Who was this player anyway? A middle-aged, balding nothing, who was married to boot. How could he resist a dazzling young woman like Rebecca—a woman of superior rank? But the player was brave, no denying that. Daft as well. Lovestruck! Why else would he fight for Jews? Miguel knew he couldn’t protest Rebecca’s dalliances with the player, because he had nothing to offer her in return. But he was still her betrothed. One day he would be her husband.

  He said, “As your future master, I’ve two demands.”

  “Speak,” Rebecca said.

  “One, don’t dally with the player under the roof of our home. Two, give me at least one legitimate heir—a son we both know is mine. I can provide your womb with ample seed, Becca. Younger seed.”

  Rebecca felt her cheeks go hot.

  “Agreed?” Miguel asked.

  “You ask me as if I had a choice,” Rebecca said.

  “As my wife, you don’t have any option but to obey me.” Miguel squeezed her hand. “But as my dearest friend, I beg this of you.”

  Rebecca smiled.

  Miguel was a wonderful man, so much kinder to her than those in the past who had ached for her body. She kissed him and swore that she would honor his requests.

  Miguel hugged his pillow with his left hand. “Becca?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “When will I be able to move my right arm? It feels completely dead.”

  Rebecca felt her body begin to shake. She knew she’d have to tell him, but that didn’t make this moment any less dreadful. To make matters worse, Miguel was right-handed. Rebecca picked up the limb and curled the fingers into a fist. The muscles underneath were still full and tight. “Try to move your fingers.”

  “I have tried, Becca,” Miguel said exasperatedly. “Many times. How long will this last?”

  She bent the limb at the elbow, scratched the underside of the forearm. “Can you feel my nails?”

  “No.”

  She scratched another spot.

  “No, nothing,” Miguel said. “I tell you the arm is dead. When will it heal?”

  Rebecca rotated his arm at the shoulder joint. She asked Miguel to repeat the motion, which he did.

  He said impatiently, “My shoulder is well…except for the limitations of the stitches in the back. It’s my arm, Becca.”

  She ran her hands over her face, then said, “Miguelito, certain nerves had to be cut when I removed the blade from thy back.”

  “How long will it take for them to mend?” Miguel asked.

  Rebecca felt tears coming down her cheeks. Very softly she said, “Nerves do not mend, Miguel.”

  Miguel’s head jolted up. “What!” he whispered.

  “Nerve tissue is very delicate—”

  “My arm is to remain lifeless forever?” Miguel said, breathing rapidly.

  “Calm yourself—”

  “Cannot a master surgeon repair the damage? Sew the nerve together again?”

  Rebecca wiped her cheeks with her fingers, then laid her hands on his shoulders. “No,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. Perhaps another more skilled than I could have done better.”

  Miguel felt weak. The room spun before him. He closed his eyes but still felt himself spinning, flying through the air. He remembered the feel of the dagger sinking into his back. He gasped as he envisioned Thomas breaking through the water’s surface, Thomas’s flailing arm pushing the poniard deeper into his spine.

  Miguel became dizzy, nauseated. He couldn’t talk.

  “I’m sorry, Miguel,” Rebecca cried. “Please forgive me. I’m so very sorry.”

  Miguel reached out for her hand and listened to her sob. His own weeping was silent.

  Chapter 43

  Sarah Lopez had personally supervised every detail of the homecoming. She’d stood side by side with Cook, sweating in the kitchen, peering over his shoulder, sampling his dishes. The meats were undercooked, Sarah complained. Back into the oven, she ordered. The lettuce was wilting, she railed on. The scullery maids had been careless and had left the leaves in hot air! More sweets! Does not the master enjoy gingerbread as well as sugar cakes? More comfits! More marmalades!

  The mistress of the manor was equally as demanding with the doctor’s personal body servant, Martino, with the chamberlains, the footmen, the grooms. Boil the water for the bath now! Sarah insisted. A goodly mistress dare not let her master wait even a second for a good, hot soak! Kindle the fire. Lay out the doctor’s clothes. Prepare his turnspit, his toilet!

  Rebecca spent m
ost of her time tending to Miguel and keeping out of her mother’s way. She had tried to talk to Shakespeare, to catch him alone, but it seemed a pair of eyes were always upon her; Dunstan’s, her mother’s, Hector’s. Wherever she walked, lay people or staff watched her—men and women with wagging tongues.

  Do no dishonor to thy husband.

  Yet Rebecca hurt to see her lover and was determined to meet with him alone to exchange vows of love and passion.

  The opportunity came shortly after three of the clock. Miguel was asleep. Rebecca tiptoed out of his chambers, down the hall to the guest closet. Shakespeare answered her knock immediately and pulled her into the room, into his arms. They kissed passionately. Shakespeare abruptly broke it off.

  “I cannot stay here past tonight,” Shakespeare said. “I’m an unwelcome guest. At best, I’m tolerated by thy kinsmen with thinly veiled contempt, at worst, I’m glared at with open hostility.”

  “I love thee,” Rebecca said.

  “I love thee as well,” Shakespeare said. “Let us flee to the Continent together! To France, to Genoa, to Venice, Becca. I speak Italian and they will welcome my talents as a bookwriter—”

  “I cannot.”

  “Thou can do whatever thou wishes.”

  “I need time.”

  “Time for what?” Shakespeare asked.

  “Miguel still mends. I must care for him.”

  “Thou told me that he’s past death’s clutches.”

  “Yes, but—”

  He grabbed her shoulders. “Come with me!”

  “My family…” Rebecca faltered. “I have to think about this, Willy.”

  Shakespeare snapped back, “They sell thee as if thou wert merchandise. Dunstan offered me money if I’d leave thee forever. Pounds, Becca, not pennies, not shillings…pounds!”

  “I’ll kill him,” Rebecca swore.

  “Yes, my lover,” Shakespeare said. “Kill him with action. Come with me!” He hugged her. “Come with me.”