The Quality of Mercy

“Or Harry spent the money before he was murdered,” Shakespeare said.

Cuthbert conceded the point. They resumed walking. It seemed to Shakespeare that Harry could have easily done in an ordinary highwayman itching for a scrap. Whitman was a deft swordsman. But was he caught off guard? Had the attacker been a fiercesome enemy or a madman possessed by an evil spirit? Shakespeare stepped in silence for several minutes, brooding over the fate of his partner and friend. Again Cuthbert placed a hand on his shoulder. He said, softly,

“What’s the sense, Will? Harry is dead and gone. But we are still among the living. We’ve a performance at two and our stomachs are empty.”

“I’ve not an appetite,” Shakespeare said. “But a pint of ale would well wet my throat.”

Cuthbert coughed.

“And yours, also,” added Shakespeare. “Have you seen an apothecary about the cough?”

“Aye.”

“And what did he say?”

“Quarter teaspoon dragon water, quarter teaspoon mithridate, followed by a quart of flat warmed ale. If it worsens, perhaps more drastic measures need to be taken.”

“What kind of measures?”

“He made mention of leeching.”

They were silent for a moment.

“Nothing to be concerned about,” Cuthbert said.

“Good.” Shakespeare paused, then said, “I must go up North for a few weeks.”

Cuthbert stopped walking. “Up North? Alone? Are you mad?”

“Far from it.”

“Though I mean no disrespect for the deceased, we are already one player short, Will.”

“Margaret asked it of me,” Shakespeare said. “And I would have done it anyway. I owe it to Harry.”

“A minute ago you called him a millstone around your neck.”

“He deserves peace in eternity,” Shakespeare said. His eyes suddenly moistened. “He visited me in my dreams last night, lectured me in the proper art of projection …” Shakespeare suddenly covered his eyes with his hands. “His restless soul hangs about me like a nagging wife. The Devil with it! I must avenge him, Cuthbert, or I’ll have no peace of mind.”

“But—”

“Save your breath.”

Cuthbert knew arguing with him was useless. Shakespeare and Whitman—both mules. He said, cautiously, “Perhaps the fellowship can handle your absence financially, if it’s only for one week—”

“Give me two weeks. The open roads may be poor.”

Cuthbert sighed. “Two weeks, then. I pray you, Willy, no more than two weeks.”

Shakespeare agreed, then added, “Much can happen in two weeks.”

Chapter 3

Judging from the number of people, the funeral party was an immense success. It was only six in the evening, but scores of sweating bodies had already filled the Great Hall of the Ames’s manor house. Most were respected commoners—wealthy business merchants, gold traders, and local statesmen—but some gallants and important nobility had elected to make an appearance. The great ladies gossiped, huddling around the lit wall torches or floor sconces so they could be observed and admired under proper lighting. They fanned themselves, studied the crowds, the dress of those without title, wondering if the commoners were violating any of the sumptuary laws. Other wives stood against the black-draped walls and sneered at their husbands stuffing their mouths with food. Two dozen rows of banqueting tables were piled high with delicacies—milk-fed beef stewed with roots, venison in plum sauce, trays of poultry, platters of pheasants roasted over the open pit in the center of the room. The hall had become stifling, choked with the smell of perspiration and the heat of cooking.

But Rebecca Lopez took no notice. Head down, she spoke to no one, and no one dared address her. She was the fiancée of the deceased, Raphael Nuñoz, and as such, entitled to her grief in solitude. She had chosen a spot under a drafty window at the far end of the Great Hall and remained alone, her aloofness constructing an invisible barrier that kept the guests away. Frosty air blew upon her neck and shoulders, and she was shivering—the only one in the room to do so. Her mother had offered her a blanket, but Rebecca had declined. She made no further effort to become warm.

Yesterday she’d been numbed by what had happened. She hadn’t been able to feel cold, heat, or pain. But now all she felt was anger and a fervent wish that all the commotion would end soon. Among all of them—the so-named mourners—not a tear had been shed. Sheer hypocrisy, she thought. They come not to console, but instead to gorge themselves or chat idly about the weather. Let them take a stroll if the chill occupies their thoughts so. Let them leave, so the air inside will clear of their foul odor and overbearing perfume.

Through her long black veil she eyed Hector and Miguel steeped in sadness. They were large men made small by black sorrow. Her heart ached for them—father and brother—so deep was the intensity of their loss. Rebecca remembered the swift death of Raphael’s mother, Judith. She’d been no more than a little girl at her mother’s side, but nevertheless recalled the ashen face, the bloody legs with a dead child between them. The memory had haunted her for years. Now, ironically, she was thankful that Judith had died and been spared the pain of seeing her firstborn dead.

How she wished she could hold Hector and Miguel in her arms, sing them sweet lullabies and take away the anguish. But to perform such an act of solace was to confess that they were more affected than she by Raphael’s death. Even though this was true, she didn’t dare admit it.

Raphael. Since she had to marry—and he had been forced to wed as well—their union would have been as good as any. He’d been a sweet, sweet lover with a randy laugh, very adventurous under the sheets. But there had been another side to him, dark and brooding. Unlike Miguel, Raphael had a terrible temper, and though he had never struck her, he’d come close more than once. Rebecca learned early in their relationship to stop asking him questions about the mission. Her betrothed, always burdened by worldly matters.

Though Rebecca mourned his death, she was relieved by the aborted nuptials. Unlike most of the girls her age, it had never been her dream to marry, to become the perfect English gentlewoman. All she could see was young girls turning older than their years, weighted down by pregnancy that turned into obesity. Fat and saggy, disgusting in the eyes of husbands who leered and groped after smooth, supple bodies. And the bairns, crying and wailing, drooling cheesy spit.

And then there was the permanently etched fear of ending up as had Judith—the women and girls staring at her corpse.

Rebecca knew her reprieve from wedlock was temporary. It was only a matter of time before Father replaced Raphael with another—Miguel, most likely. Once married, she would have to obey her husband without question. It was her duty. But for now, unexpectedly released from marital obligations, she felt like a wild horse destined for domestication but suddenly let loose instead. Freedom snipping away her feelings of numbness, of sadness. Obscene as it was, she couldn’t help herself.

Rebecca adjusted her coif, looked around the room and saw Lady Marlburn stuffing her corpulent body with comfits, licking sticky sugar off of her sausage-shaped fingers. Rebecca had been periodically observing her for an hour. The lady had consumed ample quantities of capon, duck, veal, moorcock, pigeon, and pickled eggs, washing it all down with tankards of ale. She’d be heavily purging herself tonight. The chamberpot would be filled with her putrid stools.

Swine, they were. Keeping their close stools next to their bedposts, smelling the fetid stench as they slept. It was Rebecca’s grandam who insisted that the pots be kept away from the bedchambers and the kitchen.

And they have the audacity to call us swine.

Thoughts of her grandam filled Rebecca with warmth. Though Rebecca loved her mother—she was a dutiful daughter—it was the old woman who had always been the main recipient of her affections. The hag, as she was called by everyone else, was a skeletal witch, crippled severely by disfigured feet. Toothless and wrinkled, she rarely talked to anyone, and when she did, it was usually nonsense. People thought her a bit daft, but Rebecca knew she spoke foolishly to keep people from prying into her past life—years that even Rebecca was not privy to. When they were alone, Grandmama revealed a remarkable acumen, a steadfast calm in the face of crisis, and an inexhaustible patience. Grandmama had taught her to read Hebrew, had taught her much about the old religion through tales and stories. Young and old—confidantes—each listening to the dreams of the other.

Rebecca was awakened from her reverie by the harsh cackle emitted from Lady Marlburn. As the great dame laughed, layers of chins slapped against her chest. Her breasts were enormous, tumbling out of a too-tight bodice. Her pomander was entrapped in cleavage—the sickly sweet-smelling orb peeking out of the gorge that separated mountainous mounds of flesh. Lord Marlburn stood dutifully at her side, nodding at the appropriate moments, sneaking sidelong glances at Rebecca.

The “great” lord and lady, her father forced to show them respect because they were nobility.

A pox on them.

Rebecca remembered too clearly Lord Marlburn’s heavy arms holding her down, the thick hand clamped tightly over her mouth. His prick, stubby and crusted with scum, pushing deeply into her body. His stench and sweat dripping on her freshly washed skin. When he was done, the previously lust-blinded lupine face had become sheepish. He had cried to her, begging her forgiveness at what he had thought was her deflowering. His weeping had made her even more sick and contemptuous. It had been simply her time of the month; she hadn’t been a virgin for two years.

But she had told him nothing.

Gifts soon followed—expensive bolts of cloth, bracelets studded with jewels, rare edibles—citrus from southern Italy, asparagus from Holland, chocolate from Spain. He had tried to speak with her, but she feigned illness, knowing he was mad with worry that she was carrying his bastard child. More gifts. More and more.

What a fool!

Looking at the two piggish bodies, Rebecca wondered how he could possibly mount and penetrate her when their torsos were wrapped in so many layers of fat. She tried to imagine their humping—two mastiffs pawing at each other, huffing and puffing.

She hated them! At the moment she hated everyone.

From the shield of her veil she noticed Dunstan approaching her. Her cousin was handsome. Tall, well built, his muscular thighs bulging under his stockings. His chest seemed massive under his peasecod doublet. His hair was long and sleek, his beard midnight black. A diamond winked from his left earlobe. As he neared, Rebecca picked up her head and nodded an acknowledgment.

“How are you faring?” he asked, standing at her side.

“Worry not for my sake,” Rebecca said. “Instead worry for Hector and Miguel. I fear that Raphael’s death will leave them weak with grief.”

Dunstan sighed and nodded.

“And what about your grief?”

“I’ll survive.”

“Did you love him?” Dunstan asked.

“He was my betrothed, Dunstan. Of course I loved him.”

Dunstan touched his earring with his forefinger and thumb.

“And did you love him even as he bedded your chambermaid?”

Rebecca faced him. “You’re despicable.”

“Admit it,” Dunstan said with a half smile. “You feel relieved.”

Rebecca turned away, blushing at the truth. Carelessly, she said, “Raphael’s death leaves us in a ticklish position, does it not?”

Dunstan whipped his head around and whispered, “Quiet. We’re among strangers.”

“My father talks freely,” Rebecca said. “He’s often unaware who is listening.”

“God’s sointes, Rebecca, keep your voice down!” Dunstan reprimanded her. “Your father is discreet because he trusts you and speaks unmolested in your presence. Don’t make an ass out of him—or us. As comfortable as we live, we’re not immune from the whims of our rulers.”

Rebecca knew that to be the truth. England’s religious tolerance could quickly be replaced by the Queen’s sudden death or military mutiny. It wasn’t that long ago that peace was threatened by Her Majesty’s cousin—Mary Queen of Scots. Staunch Catholics had been slaughtered. If the Papist burns easily, how much hotter burns the unbaptized heretic?

Rebecca said, “Father instructs me to concern myself little in matters of politics, only to do what I’m told. I forge the documents and forget what is being said around the house.”

“Sound advice,” Dunstan answered.

“He treats me as if I hadn’t a brain.”

“He’s worried for your safety. Uncle has some formidable enemies—”

“Essex—”

“Lower your voice.”

“I’m whispering.”

“Say no more about the mission.” Dunstan scanned the room. Thank God no one was watching them. “Raphael’s death is not only a great loss for our people, but a dilemma for you as well. We both know that Miguel is unfit as a husband. Your future is no longer ensured.”

“It matters not to me.”

“Aye, but it matters much to your father.” Dunstan patted her knee. “But God gave you a fair face and a beautiful form.”

“And a keen mind as well,” she reminded him.

“That is no asset, dear cousin. It’s a defect.”

She turned her head away.

“Not to worry,” he said philosophically. “I overheard your father talking to quite a few lords.”

“A waste of time.”

“Tis good you are less than anxious to wed.” Very good, he thought wolfishly. “I approve not of the merchandise available.”

Rebecca sighed. “And what does not meet with Sir Dunstan Ames’s approval?”

“They’re Englishmen … real Englishmen. Best to stick with kinsmen who understand our ways, even if we have to import a man from the Continent.” Dunstan looked at his hand, at his gold ring. “Although there are advantages of marrying peerage …”

Such as the weight of their purses, Rebecca thought. She said nothing.

Dunstan stroked her cheek under the veil. “Such a face you have. You could be a countess with the bat of an eyelash … The revenues of an earldom at your command … all those golden angels falling at your feet.”

“And a tarnished noble as well.”

Dunstan smiled. “A comfortable position nonetheless.”

“And a grand one for the mission,” Rebecca said. “A matter of time before hands dip into my lord husband’s pockets.”

“We don’t use money for personal gain, Rebecca,” Dunstan said.

Rebecca said, “Then why do your fingers sparkle?”

“I work hard, cousin,” Dunstan said. “I go without sleep for nights—”

“Yet you still live, while Raphael is cold,” Rebecca snapped. “Need I remind you of that detail, cousin?”

“I offer my services wherever I’m needed.”

“Bah,” Rebecca said.

“Even at a time such as this, you bait me, Becca,” Dunstan said. “What pleasure do you derive from it?”

“The same pleasure you derived when you bespoke of Raphael bedding my chambermaid?”

Dunstan didn’t answer, and glanced around the room. All he saw were people preoccupied with themselves and the food. The tables sagged under the weight of platters. And so much more still being prepared in the kitchen. As one tray grew empty, another was brought out by a scullion. Since no one was paying them any mind, Dunstan took her hand, and she didn’t resist. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Rebecca.”

For the first time this afternoon her lip quivered. The overflowing lakes that had formed in her eyes became rivers of tears pouring down her cheek.

“It was for no purpose, Dunstan,” she whispered. “A barter of Raphael’s life for another. Yes, I confess that I wasn’t keen to wed, but I grieve for the loss of my betrothed. At times the mission seems like such folly—”

“Shh,” Dunstan reprimanded her. “There’s much thou knowest not, little one.”

“Oh Dunstan!” she implored. “Don’t let Father marry me to Miguel, as is his duty. You’re a man. Be my lips and plead my case. Though I am so very fond of Miguel, our union would be a mockery!”

In sooth, Dunstan thought. He shook his head, knowing it was his cursed luck to tell his uncle Roderigo the truth about Miguel’s preferences in the art of love. Uncle had a vile temper and was bound to become enraged. He had always loved Miguel like a son. Diplomacy would be of the essence.

He turned to Rebecca. “Nonetheless, it’s your father’s duty to find you a husband.”

But in the meantime, … he thought.

Rebecca moaned. “Dear God help me. At least I had learned to understand Raphael. I become ill at the thought of marrying anyone else.”

“Hush,” he said soothingly. “Keep your ideas to yourself, Rebecca. The more obstinate you become, the more your father feels a need to tame you by marrying you off to the proper gentleman.”

“Yes.” She dabbed her eyes with a lace kerchief. “You’re correct … for once.”

Dunstan ignored the barb. They’d become so frequent of late. He said, “Until an appropriate suitor is found, your hand shall remain free.”

“I don’t want a suitor.”

“You are young and foolish. You don’t know what you want.”

“Had I the skills of a surgeon, I’d rip my womb from my body—”

“Quiet!” Dunstan said. “You’re too young to know the power of the bush between your legs. It will not be plump forever, Rebecca. One day it will dry up and no one shall be enamored of it—or you. You must learn to use the graces God has given you. It guarantees a life of leisure for your old age. A man will endow much upon you if in your youth you serve him well.”

“The stars cast upon me ill hap when they formed me woman,” Rebecca mumbled to herself.

“You speak nonsense.” Dunstan held her hands and looked into her veiled eyes. “But these are trying times for all of us, and you especially are confused. Angry one moment, sullen or grief-stricken the next. It’s best if you say nothing until you’re of stronger mind.”

Rebecca knew he was right. She was exhausted by her contradicting emotions.

Dunstan gave the room another cursory glance. They were still talking unnoticed. Lifting her veil, he kissed her quickly on the lips. “And pray, my sweet, speak not of the mission. You must learn to silence your thoughts, Rebecca. Lips should be shields, not sieves through which excess words do escape.”

Rebecca nodded and Dunstan kissed her again. This time it was with a passion she had experienced long ago in the darkness of a hayloft, and she immediately pulled away. She felt Dunstan’s disappointment and almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

He had been her first tutor, her mentor. It was he who taught her about freedom, filling her mind with tales of his travel to the Continent, to North Africa and the East. He taught her Arabic, Italian, French, Flemish. With each language she acquired, books in the original editions soon followed. Her head became dizzy with ideas that displeased her father immensely. But Dunstan disregarded him and continued her education—in body as well as mind. Rebecca knew he was after the body all along, but he, amongst all the others, was the only one willing to take the time to teach her. So she ceded to his wishes. And he was a gentle one for the first time—calm and slow—coaching with unusual patience the clumsiness out of a twelve-year-old girl.

Rebecca smoothed her cousin’s mustache with the tip of her finger. “How are the bairns?” she asked.

“A lively brood. Grace is ready to drop another son for me. She’s a healthy woman.” A cow, he thought, but God be praised, a good one for breeding—three sons and a daughter, all thriving. Dunstan lowered her veil. “Grace is a good woman also. I thank God for the day I married her. You could learn a great deal from her, cousin.”

Surreptitiously, Dunstan placed in Rebecca’s hand a folded piece of paper.

“What is this?” she said.

“Your proper mourning prayers for your betrothed. Say them in silence before you sleep tonight. God will hear them.”

Rebecca started to unfold the paper. Dunstan placed his hand on hers. He whispered, “Not here, Becca, in private. They are written in the old language.”

Rebecca paled and quickly stuffed the paper up her sleeve.

Dunstan caught the eye of the fat Lady Marlburn and nodded. He whispered to Rebecca, “When alone, you must sit on the floor, even take your meals while sitting on the floor. You may sleep in your bed, however.”

“What happens when my chambermaid comes in my closet,” Rebecca whispered back.

“When she knocks, you get up. She mustn’t see what you are doing—ever. Our money is to be used for the mission, not for paying off suspicious maids. After she leaves, you must sit back on the floor.”

“For just seven days or the whole month?”

“Just the seven days, starting tonight. Then comes the month of lesser mourning.” Dunstan squeezed his cousin’s hand. “We cannot speak anymore. The grand dame Lady Marlburn has espied our conversation and is coming our way. Soon you’ll be besieged with ghouls. Unless you wish to converse with them, I suggest you feign exhaustion.”

Rebecca slumped in her chair. It wasn’t a hard scene to play. She closed her eyes. Blessed darkness.

Chapter 4

By midnight only the converso men remained—six tonight because Hector and Miguel had gone home early with the women to grieve in private. The men sat around the table and waited for the servants to finish tidying the mess that the visitors had made. The wooden plank tables upon which the massive feast had rested were barren. With the fifty-foot walls covered in black cloth and a strong wind whistling through mullion-glass windows, the room seemed as desolate as a crypt. Dunstan Ames suggested that the men retire to a smaller closet, but his father shook his head, feeling too tired to move. Servants and scullions scurried about the hall, their footsteps muffled by the rushes that blanketed the stone floor. Eventually Dunstan grew impatient with their presence and shooed his father’s lackeys away.

Roderigo Lopez was nearly sick with exhaustion and worry. Thank God Rebecca had proved herself to be a strong girl. Not an easy chore. The funeral had been a long ordeal, the church service full of pomp and prayer that left the conversos noticeably uncomfortable. As professed Protestants but secret Jews, they were members of the local parish and attended sabbath services as required by the law of the land. But they tried to be as late for church as possible, sometimes not arriving until the conclusion of the service. Roderigo knew that the other parishoners noticed their tardiness. But the congregants never voiced a word of protest because the parish priest always greeted the conversos warmly. The secret Jews were paying him well. Though they breathed easier in England than in their native land of Portugal—there was no Inquisition here, praise God—they were still forced to hide their worship from prying eyes. An extremely difficult task. Like most landed gentry, Roderigo’s household—and that of his brother-in-law—contained many servants. Discovery of their secret religious services would brand them as Jews, which would mean deportation.

Now, with the servants gone—privacy at last—the conversos could begin the true service of mourning. Dunstan closed the massive doors to the room and the assembled men stood up from the bench, retrieved black skullcaps from their pockets and covered their heads. Roderigo looked at the men—his son, two nephews, a brother-in-law, and a distant cousin. Five grim faces, worn but visibly relieved to be away from the Gentiles. He nodded for his cousin, Solomon Aben Ayesh, to lead the services.

Lopez envied Aben Ayesh. Solomon was the only one amongst them who was an openly professed Jew—a luxury he was now afforded since he no longer lived in Europe. Solomon was short and as thin as a reed, with midnight-blue eyes which appeared black at a distance. As a diamond farmer in India, Aben Ayesh had become rich and powerful—so formidable a man that the Turkish court had rewarded him with the title of Duke of Mytilene. His network of spies was well known throughout the Continent by monarchs who ignored his religious beliefs in order to secure his confidence and, by extension, his privied information. Even though Lopez, as the Queen’s physician, held an enviable position in England, he had none of Aben Ayesh’s religious freedom and independence.