The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  Five minutes later the door to her bedchamber flew open.

  Rebecca had gained her composure, but her eyes were still red and wet. The old woman plucked a whole cucumber out of a vegetable bowl and threw it at the girl. Rebecca caught it with her right hand still sticky with blood.

  “Slice it,” Grandmama ordered.

  “I have no knife.”

  “What happened to your sword and dagger, young man?”

  Rebecca bit her trembling lip and held back tears. “They’re not in my possession at the moment,” she said.

  “No matter,” the old woman said. “Take one of the knives from my box. Slice the cucumbers thinly, then undress and lie on my bed.”

  Rebecca began cutting the vegetable. Her hands were shaky, her arm throbbing from the slash she’d received an hour ago. The wound was no longer bleeding, but her arm had swelled and was tender to the touch. Carefully she cut six uneven slices, almost nicking her thumb on the blade.

  “That’s enough,” the hag told her. “Come here and let me undress you.”

  “Pray, Grandmama, why the sudden desire for cucumber?” Rebecca asked in a small voice.

  “They’re not for me.” The old woman clucked her tongue when she saw Rebecca’s wound. “You’ve been making merry, child?”

  Rebecca let out a small laugh. Despite the fire burning in the hearth, she shivered.

  Grandmama said, “Lie down and tell me what happened while I tend your arm.”

  “It’s a rather ridiculous story.” Rebecca sank down onto the mattress.

  “Close your eyes, Becca.” The old woman covered her granddaughter with a warm blanket, then placed cucumber slices on top of her eyelids. “These will soothe your tired eyes.”

  Yes, they will indeed, Rebecca thought. She said, “I love you, Grandmama.”

  “Bah! You speak sentimental tripe only because you’re weakened.”

  Rebecca smiled and said, “In sooth, you’re a burden and of no use to anyone. Do the family a service and die soon, old cow. But first, patch my wound.”

  “Better I should bandage your mouth!”

  “Is anyone home yet, Grandmama?”

  “Only the servants.”

  “And de Andrada?”

  “The worm left the house about two hours ago. He noticed you dressed as a young man, Becca. Use more caution in the future.” The old woman pulled out Rebecca’s arm. “Now I’m ready for your words. Give me your sad recital.”

  “I fought a duel.”

  The hag burst into laughter. “A duel?”

  “Aye.”

  “With a man?”

  “Aye.”

  “And you were victorious?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “The point of his rapier was held at my throat. At the last moment he was overcome with mercy and spared my life. But you can see by the sore on my arm that he desired me fierce and great harm.”

  “Bah, Becca, the sore is but a scratch!”

  “Simple for you to say. The scratch is not on your flesh!”

  “Tush! Had the gentleman desired you true pain, he wouldn’t have released you with such a wee nick.” The old woman hobbled over to a shelf and pulled down a vial of clear liquid. “This shall sizzle the skin for a moment, child.”

  She poured eight drops from the bottle onto a rag and dabbed the skin. Tears swelled up in Rebecca’s eyes and ran down her cheeks.

  “Your cucumbers are crying,” remarked the old woman. She removed the slices, now salted with tears, and placed fresh ones atop the girl’s lids.

  “Who are you to say that my opponent meant me no real harm, Grandmama,” said Rebecca. “After all, you didn’t witness the duel.”

  “I have met many gentlemen who inflict pain on people for their livelihood. They would not have permitted you to walk away on your own two feet. Nay, Rebecca, the cut looks to me like a warning, or mayhap an attempt by your opponent to dislodge the sword from your grasp, not even a true dueling scar, I regret to say.”

  “I was magnificent in my swordplay!” Rebecca said. “My opponent had no need to show me pity!”

  “I’m certain you were a sight to behold,” Grandmama answered.

  Rebecca said, “Tell me about those gentlemen.”

  “Which gentlemen?”

  “The ones who inflicted pain for livelihood.”

  Grandmama pursed her lips. It was so long ago, a tedious and painful story. Those “gentlemen.” So vicious, yet so ordinary. And they had the gall to call themselves religious men….

  Rebecca interrupted the old woman’s thoughts.

  “…met them while you languished in the old country’s prison, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “The memories are hard for me, girl.”

  “I need to know, Grandmama,” said Rebecca. “I need to know everything about you.”

  The old woman hesitated. Roderigo had requested—no, demanded—her silence about the horrors of the Inquisition. But the hag felt otherwise. Rebecca, though sheltered, was a girl of strong constitution, a woman who’d benefit from her history, the history of her people. Grandmama said,

  “What do you know about our people, the Jews?”

  Rebecca laughed. “You desire me to recite the Bible starting from the Creation?”

  Grandmama laughed. “No. I realize you have a scant knowledge of bible—Mother and I have taught it to you. But what do you know about our history after the destruction of the Second Temple—our history in Galut?”

  “I regret to say not too much,” Rebecca admitted. “You and Mother always emphasized our biblical history. Tell me the history I lack.”

  “First, what do you know?”

  Rebecca regurgitated what she was taught. That her people lived a hundred years ago as Jews in Portugal. Her ancestors had converted to the Roman Church under the threat of death. That the Spanish labeled them swine—Marranos—once they did convert. Rebecca stopped talking and the hag urged her to continue.

  She shrugged, “Father came to England to get away from the inquisitions…I know not what else to add.”

  “You sadly lack knowledge of your forefathers.”

  “My ears are open,” Rebecca said.

  “Very well,” said the hag. “But listen carefully for I’ll not repeat it. I grow tired just thinking about it.”

  “Tell me whatever your strength allows,” Rebecca said.

  The old woman sighed. It was hard to exhume such memories. Slowly she explained to Rebecca how their history had started over a thousand years ago with the fall of the Temple, with the fall of the empire of Pagan Rome. The Jews had settled all over the world—Egypt, Turkey, Cathay. And the Continent—the Italian states, the Rhineland, Gaul. Some traveled as far as the Isle.

  The old woman began to wrap Rebecca’s arm with rags, noticing her narrative was distracting Rebecca from the pain of her injury. The crone continued,

  “The Continent was a violent home for those still clinging to the Jewish faith. The Christians were brutal. The English Christians were no better to their Jews than their sister countries on the mainland.”

  “England had real Jews?” Rebecca asked.

  “Aye,” the hag said.

  “Overt Jews?” Rebecca asked incredulously.

  “Hundreds of years ago, Becca,” the old woman said. “Know you not a whit of history?”

  “A whit of Iberian history,” Rebecca said. “Father has made it clear that although we live on the Isle, our bloodline is that of true Portuguese.”

  Grandmama thought for a moment, then said, “Then let me tell you about the Jews of England. They had flourishing communities here. They had been successful. And, as always, they incited the jealousy of the bastard uncircumcised peons—I spit on them!”

  “Do not excite yourself unduly, Grandmama,” Rebecca said.

  The old woman smiled. “I fare well, granddaughter. Now hush up before I forget my words.” She cleared her throat. “The Christian jea
lousy peaked at the coronation of Richard the First. As the English Jews carried priceless gifts for their king, unruly mobs of brawlers attacked them at the doors of Westminster Hall. The bastards ended up sacking London’s Jewry. Then the barbarism repeated itself at Lynn, at Stamford, at Norwich—the worst being the great riot of York. Thousands of Jews died by their own hands rather than suffer the same fate at the hands of the Catholics. Finally, the Jews were expelled from England on All Saints’ Day in 1290—by decree of Edward the First, may he rot in Hell. Tis the reason we feign illness on the holiday. It’s a day of mourning for our people.”

  “Father told Ben and me that we celebrated not the holiday of the Saints because we don’t believe in the Saints and it is against our laws to glorify witches.”

  “Aye, those are sound reasons as well.”

  The hag had a pained expression on her face. Rebecca asked,

  “What is it, Grandmama?”

  “There is a story—an old tale about the departure of the Jews from England,” the old woman said. “A troubling story which you should know.”

  “Tell me.”

  As the hag spoke, her eyes became lost in faraway times. “When the Jews were expelled from England, they were brought to the Continent by the boatloads and dumped upon the shores of France and Spain, which still allowed Jews to live in their country. There was one nefarious English master mariner who knew the vagaries of the sea better than the face of his wife. With a group of Jews on his vessel, he steered out to sea, waited until the tide of the Thames was low, then steered back onto a dry bank where the ship became grounded.”

  “Why?”

  “Patience. Once on dry land the master mariner—using guile—enticed the Jews off the ship and told them to come forth with him on the dry bank and wait for the tide to return. The Jews did as told. Finally, when the master mariner saw the tide coming in, he went with haste back onto his ship and pulled up anchor, leaving the Jews stranded as the river waters suddenly rushed upon them. The Jews cried out for succor, but the master mariner laughed and told them to ask their God to split the waters for them as He did the Red Sea for Moses—”

  “My God,” Rebecca said, covering her mouth. Grandmama looked at her. Rebecca’s skin had turned white. Perhaps Roderigo knew his daughter better than she. But it was too late to undo what had been started. The crone continued:

  “The Jews prayed as the tide rose over them, but alas, their prayers were not answered and they drowned most terribly beneath the Thames.”

  Rebecca asked, “Is the tale true?”

  “Methinks it must be, Becca,” said Grandmama. “But God remembers his faithful. He has marked their grave site. Beneath London Bridge there is one place that rages forth with boundless wrath even if the rest of the Thames is becalmed.”

  “I know the spot,” Rebecca whispered. She thought how her own death was nearly met above the very place. Fate. She kissed her grandmother’s cheek, squeezed her hand.

  “Do my incessant questions tire you?” Rebecca asked.

  “No, Becca.” Grandmama straightened the bandage around Becca’s arm. Her granddaughter’s skin, as smooth as marble, as rich as ermine. If only Rebecca could be protected from harm forever. The old woman said, “Hush up and let me finish.”

  The hag continued to explain that the Jews had been scattered across the world in accordance with the wishes of God. In almost all the countries they inhabited, they were molested—harassed and often murdered.

  “But in Iberia”—the old woman raised her finger into the air—“in Toledo, under the rule of the black Levantines—the Moroscos—the Jews were left in peace…and we prospered.”

  “Nonetheless, Grandmama, their worship was not open. They were forced to hide their prayers to God, worshiping in private as we do now.”

  “So there’s more of your mother’s feeding that you remember tasting,” the old woman said.

  “I said I knew a whit of Iberian history. Spain is part of Iberia, is it not?”

  The hag knocked Rebecca in the head. “Respect!”

  “Ow.”

  The hag said, “Aye, our people kept their prayers hidden from the Moroscos and appeared in public as if they worshiped the false god, Allah. But like our great Queen Eliza, the Morosco rulers peeked not through windows of their homes.” The old woman frowned. “Then Toledo went the way of the rest of Iberia—Roman Christian.”

  “Under the Catholics, Ferdinand and Isabella,” Rebecca said.

  “Aye, the twin demons, may they bake in Hell’s oven forever!” The old woman spat into the fresh straw covering the floor.

  “It was in their reign that the land of Spain was finally united under Christian rule. Jews and Moors alike were given a choice—become Catholic or relinquish all their worldly trinkets to the treasury of Spain and suffer expulsion from the country.

  “Understand, Becca, that the demons had need of much money to finance their explorations into the New World. When taxes brought in insufficient revenue, thievery was the only logical option. I shit on Spain—and her explorations.”

  The old woman sighed. “A few more words, then it’s time for my nap.”

  Rebecca nodded.

  “So the Jews converted,” said the hag. “Aye, they fell over each other’s feet racing to the font, the dolts, so happy were they to live as Gentiles.”

  But not equal Gentiles, thought Grandmama bitterly. The Converted Jews were called Nuevo or New Christians—to distinguish them from the Viejo or Old Christians—Catholics from birth. The Jews were branded as converts, inferiors. Only old Christians had true purity of “bloodline”—limpieza de sangre. A pox on their limpieza, Grandmama thought. She bent Rebecca’s elbow to ensure that the bandage allowed enough movement of her arm.

  “Our capitulation was for no purpose, Becca,” she continued. “We were considered offspring of tainted blood—second class. Many trials were held against the new converts, confiscating their money and honor. All was lost—our goods and our God.”

  “You are bitter.”

  “Bitterness is an evil crab that claws hard at the gut. I’ll have none of it in my belly.” The hag suddenly smiled, kissed her granddaughter’s cheek, and removed the cucumbers from her eyes. “Your arm has been well tended. You must dress quickly, before your father returns home.”

  “Grandmama, what about your history? The priests who inflicted pain upon you?”

  “For another time,” said the hag. “I grow weary now. I must have my nap.”

  Rebecca knew there’d be no more lessons today. She had heard that tone of finality hundreds of times in the past. Such was the way her grandam taught. A story here, a tale there. By and by, Rebecca absorbed what the old woman wanted her to know.

  Rebecca stood and said, “I have need of your counsel. I’m in a predicament.”

  “Aye?”

  “I’ve lost Thomas’s sword and dagger—the special ones that Uncle Solomon gave to him. Thomas shall know they are gone as soon as he returns home from his day at Paul’s. What am I to do?”

  “How did you lose them?”

  “Tush, Grandmama, they were the spoils of the victor of the duel.”

  The old woman shrugged. “You must tell Thomas.”

  “He shall kill me!” Rebecca bit her thumbnail. “Those were his finest weapons. He dared not carry them in public for fear they’d become marked or abraded.”

  “Aye, you’ve a problem, Becca.” Grandmama slid onto the mattress. Rebecca pulled the covers over her bony shoulders. The old woman gave her a toothless smile. “Pretty yourself up and talk to Thomas. Your cousin has a weak spot for a fair face.”

  “Nay, Grandmama, you realize not the gravity of what I’ve done. My face won’t matter to him, save to scar it with his fingernails.”

  Grandmama closed her eyes. “You’re a clever girl. You’ll think of something.”

  Within minutes the old woman was snoring.

  Nan Humbert, the Ames’s chambermaid, winced at the crash. Sir Ge
orge’s rash son had just smashed another piece of pottery. A God’s sointes, she didn’t think there was so much in the house that could be destroyed. The crash was followed by a string of curses—unchristian curses. Nan readjusted her bonnet as if it were a battle helmet, and was about to climb the stairs to Sir Thomas’s quarters when she heard a knock at the front door. She waited to see who it was. Perhaps it was Sir George Ames, and hopefully, he could calm down his irate son. She frowned when she opened the door, disappointed to find it was only Sir George’s punk niece, Rebecca.

  And punk she looked indeed—fancied up with painted eyes and lips, carrying in her hand a silly little fan. Such toys were not only vanity, but agents of the Devil. Nan smiled to herself. One day the girl would go the way of the rest of the stews—her skin scalded off by Satan himself, burning forever in a pit of brimstone. One day she’d scream for eternity, rot for the evil she and her father had done to that poor Señor de Andrada—a sinner in the past but a true repenter. One day…

  “…my mother I’m here to see her,” Rebecca was saying.

  Nan snapped herself to attention.

  “Your mother left thirty minutes ago, Mistress Rebecca.”

  “Is my aunt here?”

  “She left with your mother. I believe they meant to sup at your home tonight.”

  “Is Sir Thomas in his old quarters?”

  “I wouldn’t be bothering him now, mistress. He’s full of spit and fury.”

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “He claims his swords were stolen, mistress. He’s torn up the house looking for them, but alas, they’ve disappeared. Would you be knowing anything about that, Mistress Rebecca?”

  “No,” Rebecca said curtly. Evil Puritan bitch. “Why would I, Nan?”

  “No reason why you should, Mistress Rebecca. It was merely a question.”

  “Tell Sir Thomas I wish to speak with him immediately.”

  “I beg your pardon, mistress, but I’m afeared to go up to his room, so spleenful is his choler.”

  “A woman who fears man can never fear God.”

  The maid turned crimson.

  “No matter,” Rebecca said. “I shall see him without being announced.”

  Nose in the air, she walked past the chambermaid, up the stairs, and knocked on Thomas’s door—the chamber he had had as a child. He had his own house, but with his wife away in Turkey, he found it easier to live with his parents than alone with servants. Thomas allowed Rebecca to enter, then slammed the door shut.