The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  “Louder,” reminded the warder.

  Rebecca raised her voice. “Mother sends her love.” She took off his old stockings and immediately noticed open blisters upon the white skin of his calves. “What are these?” she asked.

  “Burns,” Roderigo said.

  “The sores must be treated—”

  Her father broke into frightening laughter. Rebecca forced herself to breathe smoothly. Without speaking she ran her fingers through the pomade of her hair and covered the sores with the grease. Slowly, she slipped the woolen hose over his legs. Roderigo didn’t even wince.

  “Mother sends her love.” She continued to dress him. “Dear me, I’ve already said that, haven’t I…. Miguel is well. His right arm is dead, but he has mastered the quill with his left. He and Uncle Solomon have had correspondence. Cousin Jacob has been in England—also conversing with Miguel. I fear that Miguel is about to enter the world of mercantilism at their behest—cloth trading, I think, as I heard a great deal about the silk route.”

  Roderigo said nothing.

  Cheerfully, Rebecca went on, “Dunstan and Thomas have been talking to Uncle Solomon as well.” She looked at the guard. He seemed alert, yet utterly bored. “The company is planning to expand its efforts into the New World—if Uncle Solomon can get another charter in the Levant. Thomas is in Turkey now with Leah—they’re staying at her father’s villa—but he’s due back in a week.” She waited for any kind of reaction from her father but received none. He was worse than Grandmama—at least her mind had been sharp to the end.

  Dear God, help him.

  “Benjamin is going to Padua—”

  “When?” asked Roderigo.

  A reaction! Blessed is God!

  “Not immediately,” Rebecca said. “After this unfortunate incident is cleared up and your good name is restored.”

  Roderigo was silent. A strange smile formed upon his lips.

  “Anyway, Padua has not yet confined the—confined certain people behind gates, as other Italian states do. Uncle Jorge has a cousin named Benzoni who resides in the city. His son studies at the university there…under Galileo Galilei, the famous mathematician. Surely you must have studied some of his works, Father.”

  Roderigo didn’t answer.

  Rebecca sighed. Her father seemed to crawl back into his shell.

  She tried again. “Benjamin…Benjamin was invited to spend some time at the Benzoni villa…. Actually, Ben’s Italian has become quite educated. He’s studying Greek as well, Father. You’d be quite proud of him.”

  Lowering his head, Roderigo began to cry again, his bony chin sinking into the hairless skin of his chest.

  “Oh Father!” Rebecca exclaimed. “We all love you so much. Not a minute passes where you’re not on all of our minds. We’ll overcome this mishap, I swear we will!’

  “Fifteen more minutes, mistress,” said the warder.

  “What about Grandmama?” Roderigo asked suddenly.

  “Grandmama?” Rebecca said weakly. “Then you don’t…Of course, how could you know.”

  Roderigo looked at her expectantly.

  Rebecca said, “She died, Father. My God, I’m sorry to tell you this…three weeks ago today.”

  Roderigo was slow to react. Finally he said, “She was a great woman when she was your age.” He paused, then said, “Her name was Teresa Roderiguez, you know.”

  “Yes—”

  “She had quite a story to tell,” Roderigo said with emphasis. “Did she ever tell you the story about her as Teresa Roderiguez?”

  “The story of her life?”

  Roderigo began to address her in rapid Portuguese. The warder sprung to his feet, struck Roderigo across the face.

  “English only!” he ordered.

  Roderigo seemed unaffected by the beefeater’s slap.

  “My honest apologies, my good warder,” Rebecca said. “My father was simply reminiscing about more pleasant times—childhood memories.”

  “I care not, as long as he does it in English.”

  “By your will, sir,” Rebecca said. She turned to Roderigo. “You must speak English, Father.”

  Dejected, Roderigo said nothing. The beefeater returned to his position at the door.

  “Grandmama’s name was Teresa Roderiguez, yes,” said Rebecca carefully. She dressed her father in a clean shirt and sleeves.

  “Teresa,” Roderigo enunciated. “Think of your grandmama as Teresa. As a young girl in a foreign country.” He whispered, “About to be burnt.”

  “Louder,” demanded the warder.

  “Of course, sir,” Rebecca told the guard. Still confused, she finished with her father’s points. Suddenly her brain came alive. Her head began to buzz, her heart thumped in her chest. “You must speak up when you talk to me, Father,” she said to Roderigo as she winked. “The good yeoman warder must be able to hear our conversation.”

  Roderigo grinned, his smile conspiratorial.

  “Teresa Roderiguez was a remarkable woman,” Rebecca said. “Very brave, and God was with her. So shall God be with you, Father…in the same way!”

  Roderigo nodded rapidly.

  “Your time is up, mistress,” said the guard.

  “Yes.” Rebecca stood. “I will think of Teresa, Father.”

  “Aye,” Roderigo said, his hands clinging to her gown. “Think of Teresa.”

  “I will.” She hugged and kissed him good-bye, and his hands released her dress.

  Roderigo whispered in her ear, “Even as I hang, Becca.”

  “Come along,” ordered the yeoman.

  Rebecca blew him a kiss as the door was slammed then locked behind her. She stood for a moment, until a guard gently prodded her along. As she walked back, she thought about what Father had told her. She knew she had to save him, and Father, through well-staged moonstruck ramblings, had told her how. A windstorm of schemes and plans blew in her mind. Visions of corpses and grave diggers.

  Chapter 58

  Another stay of execution, the Lopez hanging rescheduled sometime after Mayday. It gave the conversos more time to implement their plans. Rebecca told no one, not even Shakespeare, yet he knew something was brewing. Rebecca had become preoccupied. Begging for understanding, she rarely came to his closet. Shakespeare didn’t challenge her; her father’s life was at stake. Besides, he’d become involved in his own plots of revenge.

  The conversos kept close watch over their homes during the Easter season. They prayed for peace yet remained vigilant. The period of Lent through Palm Sunday was always dangerous for those of Jewish extraction because of its association with the holiday of Passover—the Feast of the Unleavened Bread. For centuries Christians had mistakenly believed Passover a time when Jews killed Christian babies and drank their blood. This year was especially dangerous because Roderigo—the Jewish doctor—sat in the Tower, accused of trying to poison the Queen. Though the crowds outside the Lopez estate had been dispersed by order of Her Majesty, the morality plays could instigate sudden mob riots and impulsive sacking.

  The conversos prepared for their secret holiday with extreme caution.

  All the household valuables were hidden. Once that was done, the women began their secret work in the wee hours of the morning, when the staff was still asleep. The kitchen was scrubbed. Then came the preparation of the matzoh. Unleavened flour and water were mixed into dough, patted into flat circles, and baked in beehive clay ovens for no longer than eighteen minutes. Though matzoh would be the only bread allowed to the conversos during the eight-day holiday, it would be eaten clandestinely.

  The first evening of Passover came. The conversos waited until the staff had gone to bed, then gathered in Roderigo’s closet. In secrecy they quickly read the Haggadah—the story of God’s redemption of the Jews in Egypt. Before they retired for the night, Rebecca placed two wine goblets on Roderigo’s desk—one for the prophet Elijah, the other in honor of her father. She beseeched God: by His mercy who redeemed all the Jews, let another Jew be redeemed.


  The holidays came and went and the conversos breathed a sigh of relief. Another spring without incident. The days passed hurriedly. Mayday was only weeks away. Plans were discussed, schemes solidified.

  Finally, on St. George’s Day, Rebecca quickly donned the garb of a young gent and found a few blessed idle hours for a walk into town. Her body tingled with expectation. It had been almost a month since she’d seen Shakespeare. Though London was convalescing from two years of plague, this year was proving to be healthier. Only five outbreaks of Black Death in a week, and each one contained rapidly. The air smelled clean, the cisterns yielded sweet water. Yet the wards of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital were still packed with wretched souls, other diseases clamoring for the throne of death as the plague abdicated. Rebecca wondered how the hospital was getting on without Father. Did his enemies ever stop to realize how many lives would have been saved had Father not been cruelly imprisoned? She spat upon their memories as she walked on.

  Today London was buzzing with merriment. Lads and lasses flirting, little boys scaring off little girls with loud boos and horrid-looking masks. Tonight would be a time of mummeries—masked plays and dances by the light of the bonfires. Bells and music. Strolling troubadors plucking their lutes, singing songs of spring and young love. Tonight the city streets would be packed with people reveling, drinking themselves blind.

  The graveyards would be empty.

  She hurried through Cheapside toward Shakespeare’s closet. He should be in good humor, thought Rebecca. The Master of the Revels had announced that the theaters would open soon after Whitsunday. She ran to his tenement and knocked on his door.

  No answer.

  She knocked again.

  Nothing.

  She sat in front of his door, dozed off and woke up when she heard the bellman cry out the time. Three-thirty.

  With disappointment her constant companion, she left his closet.

  The midnight bonfires set London aglow; the graveyard was as black as pitch. Thomas lit a piece of tinder, a glowing orange star in an endless inky sky. He pulled the black hood off his head and motioned for the others to do the same. He said to Rebecca:

  “What was the man’s name?”

  “Joseph Gladstone,” she whispered. “He died of a foul heart. He was sixty-two, the same height and stature—”

  “Even as a corpse?” Dunstan asked. “Death eats away the body.”

  “Death was very quick,” Rebecca said. “I saw him at the hospital on Tuesday, and he was dead by Thursday. The resemblance was remarkable. Besides, once we drench the corpse in blood, no one will know the difference. All they’ll see is red—”

  A low wail filled the air.

  “What was that?” Rebecca whispered.

  “Just an owl,” said Benjamin. He hugged his sister protectively.

  Miguel said, “Go on, Becca.”

  The noise repeated itself.

  “Are you certain?” she asked Benjamin.

  A bat darted across the expanse of charcoal sky. The hooting stopped and a huge shadow soared after the winged mammal.

  “There,” Thomas said. “You see? Just an owl after his supper.”

  Rebecca’s eyes darted about. The sky was moonless; the leafless trees stood like cadaverous watchmen about the graveyard. The air was rich with the perfume of newly budding vegetation, but the earth reeked of death.

  “Dear God,” said Rebecca.

  “Shall I stay with you while the others dig?” offered Miguel. He took her hand.

  Rebecca shook her head. “I’m well.” She kissed his hand, his lifeless hand as well.

  “You’re certain?” Benjamin asked her.

  “Quite certain, Ben. Thank you.”

  Miguel asked her, “Have you any idea where this Gladstone’s body is buried?”

  Rebecca breathed deeply and looked around. In the daytime the graveyard hadn’t seemed so large, but tonight it was enormous. Acres of tombstones, a garden of the dead. She pointed to the far corner of the cemetery. “I followed the funeral party out here yesterday. I think he’s buried somewhere over there.”

  “You’ll keep watch here?” Thomas said.

  “Aye,” Rebecca said. “Go.”

  Miguel asked, “Are you certain you’re well? You’re as pale as a—”

  “Don’t say it!” Dunstan said.

  “I’m well,” Rebecca insisted. “Go with God’s speed!”

  The men, black-shrouded and carrying shovels, quickly made their way to the other side of the graveyard.

  “I feel like a monk in this dress,” complained Dunstan.

  “Act like one who has taken a vow of silence,” Thomas replied.

  “If you wouldn’t be limping so badly, we would have made better time,” Dunstan said.

  “If you would have fought like a true man, I wouldn’t be limping at all!” Thomas said.

  “Stop it, both of you,” Benjamin said.

  “You’re one to speak harshly,” Dunstan said. “You weren’t even there!”

  “It was not my desire to stay in London,” retorted Ben. “Twas your father who requested my attendance.”

  “And that stopped you, eh?” Thomas sneered.

  Miguel broke in, “I was there and I say to all of you, stop it. And for God’s sake, keep your voices down. Roderigo’s life is in extreme jeopardy, and you’re all chattering like magpies. Find the grave, Tommy.”

  Thomas passed the light over the tombstones. “Pickerson Oldham, Bartley, Chatterton, Bingham…Glaston was the name?”

  “Gladstone,” the other three answered in unison.

  “Gladstone, Gladstone.”

  “Light the torch, Tommy,” suggested Miguel. “Shine it on the ground and look for freshly dug earth.”

  “Someone will see us,” said Benjamin.

  “And if we don’t find the plot soon, someone is sure to see us as well,” Miguel said.

  Thomas brought the burning tinder to the head of the torch and set it on fire.

  “Ah, a beacon,” announced Dunstan.

  “Shh,” said Miguel.

  “Over there,” Benjamin said, pointing to a mound of newly packed dirt.

  “Good, good,” said Thomas.

  They hurried to the spot and began digging. They had just started their labors when Rebecca gave the signal whistle.

  “The Devil!” said Miguel.

  “Quickly, douse the light,” Dunstan said. “We’ve got company.”

  Thomas extinguished the flames of the torch. They all lay flat, bellies on the ground.

  “The watchman?” Benjamin whispered.

  “Let’s pray not,” answered Dunstan.

  Two men carrying lanterns stood not more than one hundred feet from them.

  “Grave robbers,” said Dunstan. He stood up. “We’ve nothing to fear from them.”

  The other men stood. The two ghouls stopped walking. Thomas relit the torch and approached them.

  “State your business, men,” he said.

  “Looks like our business be the same as yers,” answered one of the grave diggers, eyeing their shovels. He was tall and thin with a huge nose and a thick crop of black hair. His companion was short and dumpy with a broad nose and saucer-shaped eyes.

  “We were here first,” Dunstan said.

  The big-nose one said, “Aye, but all the society knows that this graveyard belongs to the master.”

  “I’m of superior class than ye,” said Dunstan, pointing to his chest. “And I say get out of here.”

  Big Nose answered back, “Ye’d not be talking so strong-like ifin it was the master here himself, that’d be the truth, aye?” He turned to his companion.

  “That’d be the truth,” chirped the dumpy one.

  “And the master won’t be merry to find ye here, that’d be the truth, huh?” said Big Nose.

  “That’d be the truth,” said Dumpy.

  Thomas drew his sword. “This is the only truth I know, good-fellows.” He placed the tip of the sword against the
bob in Big Nose’s throat. “Know you this bit of warning?”

  Big Nose nodded.

  “And you?” Thomas said, looking down at Dumpy.

  “That’d be the truth,” answered Dumpy.

  “Your master is George Mackering?” asked Thomas.

  Big Nose nodded. “Can ye be removin’ that point from me neck?”

  Thomas said, “Tell your master he will be compensated for his losses.”

  “Who ye be?” asked Big Nose.

  “The only one who can challenge George Mackering in a duel,” Thomas answered, drawing the blade across Big Nose’s neck. A thin line of red appeared. “Got that?”

  Big Nose jumped back and clutched his throat. He gasped.

  Thomas lowered the point of his blade until it touched Big Nose’s groin. “Got that, I asked?” he repeated.

  Big Nose nodded.

  “And you?” Thomas asked Dumpy.

  “That’d be—”

  “Get out of here, both of you,” ordered Thomas.

  When they were gone, Miguel laughed. “Such audacity. Using our chosen graveyard!”

  Benjamin joined in, “Men with much gall.”

  “One would think them Gauls,” said Dunstan.

  Miguel was the first to resume digging. Ten minutes later the coffin was unearthed.

  “Who holds the sack?” asked Miguel.

  A bat dove at Dunstan. He waved his arm in the air, made contact with the animal and slapped it. The bat flew across the graveyard.

  “Good show,” Benjamin said.

  “Naturally,” Dunstan said. He turned to Miguel. “I have the sack.” He unfolded a piece of burlap. “Who’s going to do the honors and open up the coffin?”

  “Step aside,” Thomas said. He drove his dagger into the wood, twisted and tore the planks apart, piece by piece.

  “Tush, that stinks!” Miguel said, covering his nose.

  Dunstan held open the sack. “Heave the old boy in.” Thomas looked at Miguel. Miguel looked back at Benjamin. Sighing, Benjamin took a deep breath, then looped his arms around the corpse.

  “Troth!” he exclaimed. “He’s heavy as well as putrid.”

  “Dead weight,” Dunstan said, and laughed.

  “Give me a hand,” Ben said.