The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  Roderigo couldn’t contain his anger. He rose from his chair and shouted, “Those are de Andrada’s words to de Mendoza! Not mine!”

  “Guards will restrain the prisoner,” the Lord Mayor of London demanded.

  “But—”

  “Quiet!” demanded Coke.

  Lopez sat back into his chair. Let them have their venal game. Just let it be over. Let me be strong.

  Coke continued his lies, smiling as he spoke. Roderigo groaned inwardly. Unbearable it was to hear such treachery and not be able to respond to it.

  Coke said, “We have clearly demonstrated that Dr. Lopez has been willing in the past to poison his master—provided that the King of Spain requests it and pays for it.”

  No! Lopez wanted to shout. But he restrained himself, and managed to look at Essex. The bastard’s moment of triumph. But one day, God—Roderigo’s God, the God of Justice—would call upon the earl to account for his sins. Midah keneged midah—the way one lives is the way one dies. Essex will get his. Roderigo felt a sudden calm.

  Coke waited until the letter was back on the evidence table. He picked up the next insidious document. “This letter was intercepted by our own Lord Essex’s spies in the Low Countries.”

  De Andrada’s words—as deadly as a murder weapon. Roderigo tried to convince himself: God will see me through.

  Coke handed the letter to Essex. Coke said, “Notice the signature. Though the name be Francisco de Torres, the writing is identical to Dr. Lopez’s hand. And also notice the purposely obscured language. Pearls? Since when has Spain become an international marketplace for the trade of pearls?”

  Coke glared at Lopez. He demanded, “Just what do those words mean, Dr. Lopez?”

  All heads had turned in Roderigo’s direction.

  “Am I to speak?” he asked.

  “Only if thy mouth has something of importance to say,” Essex sneered. “Which I doubt.”

  Restrained laughter was heard.

  “Go on, I say,” prodded Coke. “What meant you to the King of Spain when you asked him for the price of pearls?”

  Roderigo chose his words. To admit the truth, that pearls meant the price of redeeming Jews, would brand his family as those of the full Mosaic faith. Only true, believing brethren would risk their lives to save one another. Being labeled as practicing Jews would mean deportation for his family—or possibly death, if the commission wanted to prove a larger conspiracy.

  Roderigo said, “In the New Lands—” He stopped, noticed he was whispering. He started over in a clear voice. “In the New Lands the King of Spain had come suddenly upon a sea rich with pearl oysters. I was interested in acquiring a load—”

  “Come, come,” scoffed Essex. “Are we expected to believe this?”

  “It’s the truth,” Roderigo said.

  “He lies in his doggish throat!” Essex exclaimed. “Even now he tries to save his neck. But it is too late!”

  The Lord Mayor of London touched Essex’s shoulder, bidding him to quiet. The earl became quiet, an angry sneer upon his lips.

  Coke said, “Is this commission to believe that you were paying the King of Spain for pearls?”

  Roderigo nodded.

  “Where did these pearls come from?” Coke inquired.

  “An undisclosed sea in the New Lands,” Roderigo said.

  Essex blurted out, “Under torture you have tried to convince us that the word pearls meant Jews. That you were saving Jews, yet you deny that now!”

  “Yes,” Roderigo said.

  “Why would you say under torture that the word pearls meant Jews?” Coke asked Roderigo.

  Roderigo felt his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth. Had he really uttered those words?

  “This vile Jew,” Essex said, pointing, “was no doubt plotting with his kinsmen, other secret Jews, as well as Philip, in the murder of Her Majesty.”

  “I am a member of England’s Church,” Roderigo managed to say.

  The statement was met with laughter.

  “Let us not veer off the mark,” Coke said. “Everyone knows that Lopez is a secret Jew and is only a member of the Church of our land to prevent deportation—”

  “That is not true!” Lopez said.

  “Ye villainous dog!” Essex said. “Blessed be Jesus Christ that you hid your devilish practices, as mere deportation would have been a slap in the face of justice. You shall die the death of a traitor!”

  Again the Lord Mayor hushed Essex. Coke was irritated with the interruption, but Essex didn’t care. He was flushed with delight.

  Coke went on, “If pearls simply meant pearls, how do you explain this ring, Doctor?”

  He held up a ruby and diamond ring—the one Roderigo had given to Her Majesty.

  The one Her Majesty had given back to Rebecca.

  “Was it not given to you by the King of Spain?” Coke said.

  Lopez was slow to respond. Eventually he said, “The ring was—”

  “Answer the question—yes or no! Was the ring given to you by the King of Spain?”

  Roderigo spoke with dignity, “Yes, it was.”

  Coke said, “Why would the King of Spain give you a valuable piece of jewelry? If you desire to purchase pearls from His Majesty, should not you be the one to offer him such payment?”

  Lopez was silent.

  “Why did the King of Spain pay you with a ring from his treasury?” Coke pressed.

  “He did not pay me.”

  “Then what was the true purpose of the ring?” asked Coke.

  “It was given—” Lopez cleared his throat. “It was given to me by the King of Spain. I was to give it to Her Majesty as a token of friendship.”

  “A token of friendship?” Coke said in disbelief. “The King of Spain giving our great Gloriana, our Virgin Queen, a token of friendship?”

  It sounded absurd even to Lopez. He felt imbalanced, as if inflicted with falling sickness.

  Coke asked, “Is that what you told Her Majesty when you gave her the ring?”

  Lopez didn’t answer.

  “Is this what you told Her Majesty when you presented the gift to her?”

  “No,” Lopez whispered.

  “Did you tell Her Majesty from whom you obtained the ring?”

  “No.”

  “And why was that?”

  “Because I doubted that Her Majesty would accept the ring…if she knew from whence it came.”

  “Then why did you give Her Majesty the ring?” Coke asked.

  “His Majesty wanted it in her hands, not mine,” Lopez answered. “I simply served as his intermediary.”

  “And we are to believe this?”

  Lopez was silent.

  “And we are to believe this?” Coke repeated. He now addressed the commission. “I have a more likely explanation—one suggested by Emmanuel de Andrada’s letter to Lord Essex. The King of Spain gave you the ring as an initial payment for poisoning your mistress! The word pearls does not refer to pearls. Nor does it refer to Jews…. Nay, not at all. It refers to the price of poisoning the Queen, does it not?”

  “No!” Lopez protested.

  “Musk and amber refers to the price of burning Her Majesty’s ships!”

  “Never!”

  “Yet you have stated that those words mean exactly that, Dr. Lopez,” Coke continued. “You have signed a confession that says as much!”

  “Signed it as I lay stretched upon the rack!” Lopez retorted.

  Essex could not contain himself. He said, “Ye vile Jew confessed it, yet now you belie yourself and say you did it only to save yourself from a racking. As the Lord is my sole witness, you know this to be untrue! Judgment of guilt shall pass against you to the applause of the world!”

  Coke added, “You signed the confession, Dr. Lopez! And others will show it to be the truth! The ring was initial payment for the poisoning of your mistress and burning her ships—guilty of item two, intent to poison the Queen, guilty of item three, intent to burn her ships!”

 
; “Untrue!” Lopez yelled.

  But he could not be heard over the clapping of the commissioners’ hands.

  Coke orated, “A clever wolf you are, Lopez. You knew how damaging it would be to have a ring from the King of Spain in your possession. So with devious intent you gave the ring to your mistress and hid its origins.”

  “No,” Lopez insisted.

  “Then why did you give it to the Queen?”

  “The King of Spain wanted Her Majesty to have it.”

  “Then how did it get back into your hands, Doctor?”

  Lopez said, “It was given to my daughter by Her Majesty the Queen.”

  Coke said, “Her Majesty gave it back to your daughter when she found out from whence it came, did she not?”

  “I know not,” Lopez said. “Only that Her Majesty gave it to my daughter.”

  “To give back to you.”

  “No,” Roderigo said stubbornly. “It was given to my daughter as a gift.”

  Coke said, “Maybe it was given to your daughter because she, too, was involved with this nefarious plot.”

  Roderigo turned white. He cried, “NO!”

  “Hadn’t she visited the Queen with you on more than one occasion?”

  They were trying to implicate Rebecca. Dear God, dear God, help me.

  “Rebecca knew nothing—”

  “Then admit it, Jew. The ring was given back to you because it came from the sworn enemy of England.”

  “Yes, yes,” Roderigo said. Anything, please God, so long as they don’t touch Rebecca.

  “You lied when you said it was given to your daughter, did you not? It was given back to you personally when the Queen found out its origins?”

  Roderigo said yes, he had lied.

  “He admits his perjury!” Coke said to the commission. “Only the threat of his daughter’s neck forces him to confess the truth. In sooth, the King of Spain gave it to Dr. Lopez as payment for a certain service that the doctor was to perform for him—that service being the poisoning of your mistress, the Queen, and the burning of her ships. Guilty, guilty, guilty!”

  Roderigo lowered his head and stared at the floor.

  “The man is a murderer,” Coke accused. “A notorious liar, a wolf dressed up as a man of medicine. And more, as we shall hear!”

  He called in the witness against the accused.

  Roderigo saw Esteban Ferreira de Gama enter the chambers. He was skeletal, his eyes feral, mad. They had treated him very badly. He must have gone through much torture before he agreed to play the witness against him. Roderigo’s heart held no anger against him. Instead it was sated with pity.

  They sat him near Essex. The red-haired lord glared at him malevolently, but de Gama didn’t flinch. Only when the tortured man sneaked a sidelong glance at Roderigo did he begin to cry.

  “Shall you tell your story?” Coke said to de Gama.

  De Gama was sobbing.

  “Shall I read you your confession?” Coke said. He didn’t bother to wait for an answer, read out loud the document signed by de Gama while under torture. Midway through the recital de Gama peeked at Roderigo. The doctor caught de Gama’s eyes and gave him a reassuring nod.

  You did what you had to do, I understand.

  It made de Gama weep all the more.

  When Coke had finished reading the indictment, he said to Roderigo, “Is this not the very story that you yourself admitted? The very confession you made and signed?”

  “I suppose I did say something like that. Under torture.”

  “I shall remind you of your exact words, Doctor,” Coke said with an air of triumph. He read aloud Roderigo’s confession, then handed it to the Lord Mayor to pass around to the other commissioners.

  Coke said to Roderigo, “The commission has now heard the very confession in which you expressed your willingness to do heinous and treasonous service for the King of Spain.”

  Lopez didn’t answer. There was nothing left to do but acquiesce. Though the case was built upon lies, it had been organized carefully. They had it all—de Andrada’s old letter stating that Lopez was willing to do service for the King of Spain, Lopez’s letter to Gomez D’Avila—the agent David, in the Low Countries—stating that Lopez was willing to do more business with the King of Spain. Obscure code words that could be interpreted in any manner the reader of the letter desired. A ring that was given to him by Philip. A witness to corroborate their lies, his own statement corroborating de Gama’s forced falsehoods.

  Had Lopez been a member of the commission, he would have condemned himself.

  Coke made a few cursory closing remarks—most of them insults to Roderigo’s character—a vile, contemptuous villain, a currish Jew not worthy to breathe the air of the English. The commissioners took the vote. One by one they pronounced him guilty. Unanimous.

  Roderigo was asked if he wanted to say anything in his defense. What could he say that wouldn’t be met with disbelief, with jeers and derision? He accepted the verdict with stoic resignation. It was useless to do otherwise. He did not apologize. He did not beg for mercy. His only statement to the commission was that his family—his wife and children, his in-laws, his nephews—had known nothing of his deceit. Suffer not the innocent for the sins of the father, he stated.

  Silence followed Roderigo’s pleas, then Coke stood and motioned the commissioners to stand as well. Held firmly by armed guards, Roderigo was led out of the chambers, led back to the Tower to await his execution.

  Chapter 55

  Like a fiend, Rebecca paced.

  Her father, guilty of treason, of trying to poison the Queen!

  As if the verdict were a surprise. The trial had been a mockery.

  She muttered a string of curses in Portuguese and kicked the door. Shakespeare looked up from his writing desk. He’d almost burned his tallow dry. Gods, he was tired. Through dim light he could make out the lines on his hourglass—four in the morning.

  “Go to sleep, Becca,” he said. “Close thine eyes and dream.”

  “About what?” she answered. “My father’s execution?”

  Shakespeare regarded the piece of paper before him. He crumpled it and threw it down on the floor. His nerves were taut, his stomach churned. His mind was as thick as a bucket of mud.

  “I’m sorry,” he managed to say. “I wish there was something I could do for thee. I feel useless.”

  Rebecca picked up an apple from his trestle table and threw it against the wall. It was soft and fell to the floor, oozing mush. Ye Gods, Shakespeare thought. He’d just finished repairing all the damage he’d done during his fit of madness and now she was going to undo it all again.

  “The bastards,” Rebecca snarled. “Foul toads, each and every one of them.”

  “Shh,” Shakespeare said. “The walls are thin.”

  She stopped pacing, weak with fatigue. She spoke haltingly. “We cannot leave our doorstep without someone calling us vile names…without someone spitting at our feet. They gather outside our house all day. They throw garbage over the walls…hurl rocks at the windows…. It’s horrible!”

  Her legs could no longer support her weight. She sank onto Shakespeare’s pallet—newly sewn, stuffed with sweet straw. He stood up from his table, waded through piles of discarded papers crushed into balls and lay down beside her.

  “Night is my true ally,” she whispered. “Darkness is a lover. I am hidden. I can breathe freely.”

  Shakespeare asked, “What can I do for thee?”

  “Nothing,” Rebecca said, turning her back to him. “Nothing at all. We live in constant fear, Will. Much like thee with thy murderous shadow, except that all of England is out to do us in. My brother is particularly vulnerable. I worry for his life.”

  “Perhaps he should leave the country for a while.”

  “And desert Father?” She rolled over and faced him. “He’d never do that. Do you not recall Benjamin’s loyalty the night thou called my father a whoremonger?”

  “Too clearly,” Shakespeare s
aid. The boy had been frothing with rage. “Cannot your mother leave at least? Surely the strain is too much for her.”

  “She’ll not leave until Father is freed…or laid in his grave.”

  Rebecca turned to him and stroked his cheek. “Oh my honeyed lover…if it were found out by certain people that thou hast befriended me—a Jewess, daughter of a traitor—”

  Shakespeare placed his fingers on her lips. Rebecca kissed them softly, then nestled his hand between her breasts. She said,

  “I must return to my house before daybreak. I must not be fragile in front of Mother. I must be strong.”

  “Stay,” Shakespeare said, wrapping his arms around her. “Just a moment longer. Then I’ll walk thee home.”

  Rebecca closed her eyes, finding comfort in the cradle of his embrace. So sweet, so kind. He was everything to her, seeing her through these days of madness. Her rock, her redeemer. He had even offered to run away with her once again, thereby tainting himself forever. Of course, she had refused. Never would she permanently inflict her woes upon him. Yet she knew that had he left her alone, she would surely have perished.

  Rebecca said, “Thou hast yet to write anything acceptable?”

  “Nothing that would move a queen to pardon thy father,” Shakespeare said. “I’ve failed thee—”

  “Stop,” Rebecca said. “What about what thou hast tossed or the floor?”

  “Words unworthy for a monarch.”

  “We have no time for vanity or perfection, sweet William. Anything is better than nothing.”

  “Regard what I’ve written, if it will make thee lighter of spirit,” Shakespeare said, sweeping his arms over the floor. “But I confess that my mind has been a barren womb.” He regarded her with profound sadness. “I’m sorry.”

  Rebecca felt a lump of despair in her chest. She said, “If I can get through the crowds, and if I can squeeze through the guards, and if I can manage to capture the Queen’s attention, and if I am allowed to speak without immediate arrest…What…” She felt tears well up in her eyes. “What am I to say to Her Majesty, Willy?”

  Shakespeare ran his hands over her face. He sighed. “Let’s see what I’ve thrown away. Perhaps I can play around with the words….” Rebecca was about to rise from the pallet. Shakespeare said, “No, no. Rest, my love, while thou hast peace and opportunity.”