Sarah covered her face and wept out, “God be praised, I thought I’d never see any of you again!”
“Amen,” they responded.
Sarah allowed herself no more than a moment’s worth of crying. Uncovering her face, she dried her tears and went to work. She summoned blue-gowned chamberlains, grooms, footmen, scullions, handmaidens—dozens of servants in all. Ride into London and retrieve a doctor for Sir Thomas and Master Miguel, as they are in need of medical care! Make up the toilet! Light the fireplaces and dress the travelers with clean clothes! Prepare a supper of fresh victuals! Take the child and set up a nursery!
Dunstan gave Reina to a young handmaiden who looked to be no more than fourteen—a dark-skinned beauty, probably a Morosca. Famished, but not for food, Dunstan whispered in the maiden’s ear that he’d join her and the baby in a moment. The girl’s skin reddened behind her ears.
Sarah barked more orders to Martino, demanding that he supervise the chores with a watchful eye. Make sure everything was done perfectly.
“By your will, mistress.” Martino hurried off.
Sarah commanded, “All of you, upstairs!”
Dunstan felt a sudden hollowness. Something wasn’t correct. Sarah was giving the orders. His stomach began to churn. “What news, dear Aunt,” he inquired anxiously.
Rebecca lifted her head and asked, “Has Father—”
“No news yet, children,” Sarah said, twirling Rebecca’s wet hair in her fingers. She lifted her daughter’s face and kissed her cheek. “Lord Burghley’s men were here yesterday, sifting through Father’s papers, searching for evidence of God-knows-what. Of course, I’d hidden—”
Sarah looked at Shakespeare and smiled demurely—a smile he’d seen before on her daughter’s face. Sarah cleared her throat, then said, “Of course, I preferred to remain hidden from the ordeal and witnessed not their quest for…whatever. Uncle Solomon and Cousin Jacob arrived early this morning from Mytilene and await with Benjamin at Burghley’s house, where Father is under arrest. We all pray that the matter will be handled with much expedience at court tomorrow. Now, upstairs all of you, lest you wish ague upon your haggard bodies! The chamberlains await you with dry clothing. Go!”
As the rest of the men started for the staircase, Rebecca said, “A minute more in your hands, Mother.”
“Becca, you must dress or you’ll catch your death.”
“Just a minute, I pray you. I’ve missed you so much!”
Sarah couldn’t hold back the tears. She cried as she stroked her daughter’s wet head, still cradled in her lap. She was so proud of her and told her so.
Rebecca said, “I only did what was expected of me.”
Sarah was taken aback. Rebecca’s voice had become as grave as her own. What had happened to her little girl? Sadly, Sarah knew the answer.
“Mother?” Rebecca said.
“Yes, daughter.”
Rebecca’s eyes began to water. “The little girl’s brother…He was not as fortunate as we were.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “His body is outside, wrapped in sheets…. I think it proper that we tend to the matter as soonas possible.”
Sarah sighed and nodded. “Go upstairs, Becca. I’ll take care of it. I’ve buried many a child in my day.”
“And while the men make merry with food and drink, they’ve saddled you with an old woman?” the hag asked Rebecca. The old woman was in bed, propped up with pillows, holding her granddaughter tightly in her arms.
Rebecca answered, “They invited me to join them for supper and I chose to be with you, to tell you my tale personally. However, if you remain unpleasant, I’ll leave for company of better cheer.”
“Bah,” scoffed the old woman, squeezing Rebecca harder. “If I meet not your approval, find the door.”
“I love you, Grandmama,” Rebecca said.
“I suppose I love you as well. I’ve no choice. You’re the only one who still converses with me.”
“If you wouldn’t act so moonstruck—”
“I am moonstruck!”
Rebecca smiled, then grew quiet. The old woman knew that she was thinking about her father. The hag had thought about him as well. She sighed, knowing that she couldn’t say anything to comfort her granddaughter.
“Now you have experienced firsthand your father’s travails,” Grandmama said.
“Yes.” Rebecca turned to her. “Do you ever wonder if we’ve done more harm than good in trying to smuggle Jews out of Spain? Had we not interfered, Pedro would have been alive. Yes, he would have been taken into a Catholic family and raised in the Papist religion, but he would have been counted among the living.”
“They would have made him a priest,” Grandmama said.
“A living priest,” Rebecca argued.
“Then someone would have found out his origins—the child of relapsos—and he would have been rooted out. Brought before the tribunal of the Holy See. They would have tried him, condemned him, tortured him, then murdered him before a crowd of cheering olive-skinned bastards. Is any cruelty too strong for the Iberian Papists and their blackhearted forked-tongued Bourbon prince? God knew what was best when He plucked the child from this earth, rest be to his ashes.”
Rebecca said, “Even with all the torture, Grandmama, you lived…. You…lived.”
“Yes, child, I lived. And I suppose I’m glad I did. A burden it is to make choices for our children. We’re not perfect specimens, we make mistakes. Had the boy’s mother known what was in store for him, she might not have opted for escape. But in the end, Becca, is it we who choose or God? Pedro’s fate, our fate, is God’s will.”
“I envy your faith, as strong as the hands of Samson.” Rebecca snuggled deep into her grandam’s bosom. “How did you keep loving a God who’d condemned you to torture?”
“I didn’t always love Him. There were times when I was certain that God had forsaken me. But in the end I was remembered by the true Master of the universe.”
Rebecca paused, then asked, “Pray, how did you escape the dungeons?”
“I never escaped the dungeons.”
Rebecca waited for more.
“A moment while I recollect my thoughts.” The old woman closed her eyes, trying to visualize a memory interred decades ago. “I am back there now. Dark. Foreboding with the smell of the wretched and the dead. God have mercy upon their souls.”
The hag moaned.
“When the torture failed to elicit the wanted response, the Inquisitor ordered me back to jail to await my final punishment.”
Back to despair, she thought, back to hopelessness.
“My cell had been a box. I could not stand. I could not lie down. But I could sit if I hunched my shoulders in a certain manner.”
“Dear God—”
“Terrible it was. Rats and vermin were my constant companions.” The old woman could feel them even now, upon her skin, licking her sores, gnawing her fingers and toes. The memory made her shiver. “But the rats were the least of my troubles. The guards were the true beasts. Taking advantage of a young girl whenever they wished, not a drop of decency in the toadish pack. If there lives such an animal as ‘Christian kindness,’ I’ve yet to pet it.”
Rebecca lowered her head and thought of Shakespeare. He had been more than kind, he’d been her savior, a saint. But she didn’t say anything. She noticed Grandmama was shaking.
“You’re cold,” Rebecca said. She rose and threw well-seasoned wood into the hearth. The flames crackled, burst into sparks and let off a gush of warmth. She sat back down at her grandmother’s bedside.
“Thank you, girl,” the crone said.
“Can you continue?”
“I must. You must know my history.” The old woman hesitated, then said, “Among the beasts there was this man named Alberto Ramires. Not human, but not as foul as the rest. He fulfilled his needs with my body, but at least was gentle about it.
“Twas a miracle that you married after such treatment.”
“I swore not to wed. As
you have done many times.”
Rebecca said nothing.
Grandmama smiled. “A vow sworn by the young is as good as broken. You’ll marry. And you’ll have children. More bairns than I had, if God be with you. Whereas your parents are your legacy, your children are your future. And so it was that through a child I had a future.”
“How so?”
“Alberto Ramires had a wife, six daughters as healthy as breeding mares and a sickly son named Jaime. The boy was cursed with fevers, chills, a poor appetite, and bones so soft you could mold them around your throat for a chin piece. But the lad was the light of his father’s heart, as most sons are. Your father is most unusual, treating you exceptionally well for a girl.”
Grandmama stroked Rebecca’s cheek.
“But Ramires was the more ordinary Spanish padre. The sun rose and set on little Jaime, and every time the boy became ill, which was often, Ramires would become mad with fright. Now, he knew that I was learned in the Levantine practices of medicine. That I, as a Jewess, knew secret arts passed down from mother to daughter…or from grandmother to granddaughter. Whenever the child was afflicted with an illness, Ramires came to me.”
“And you gave him your secrets after what he’d done to you!”
“Aye.”
“I would have spat in his face!”
“And you would have erred, Becca. What good would have passed had I killed the child by withholding my secrets?”
Rebecca was silent.
“You would have done it as well,” the hag went on. “I gave Ramires our remedies. Ground cow hooves for the boy’s bones, salts for the fevers—”
Rebecca added, “And cheese mold.”
“He was hesitant, but I convinced him. The child lived through many a difficult bout of illness because of my potions. And in the end, God, in his infinite mercy, showed me kindness—Jewish kindness.”
Rebecca smiled.
The old woman said, “God chose the moment of my destruction to show the rotten Papist his supremacy!”
The hag went on to explain how Spain and Portugal back then were still separate countries, how Portugal was anxious to imitate their Spanish cousins and set up tribunals. In 1540 the Portuguese Holy See finally met with success. Grandmama held the honor of being the first Portuguese Jew sentenced to be torched to death.
Grandmama said, “I was determined to die the way I had sworn to live—a Jewess. I cursed the Inquisitor General—a foul snake named Don Henrique, with a beak for a nose. I wished him to the Devil, would have shat on him if they’d allowed me the opportunity. I refused their stinking salvation and their hateful false god—some woodworker nailed to a cross—and they refused me mercy. They tied me to the quemadero—the stake—and Queen Catalina herself lit the pyre under my feet.”
Grandmama paused to catch her wind. Rebecca held her breath.
“The flames began to rise, enveloping me in smoke. The pain…Ah, how could I speak to you of the agony!”
“Grandmama, perhaps we should stop—”
The old woman shook her head. “I remember screaming, my roasting flesh being burnt off my feet. I called out God’s name! It was as if an angel put the word in my mouth. I saw my soul leave my body. I saw it wrestle with an angel, Rebecca, so help me I swear it! Then I must have fainted. Upon my awakening, I found myself gasping for breath, lying in a man’s arms.”
“Ramires!” Rebecca said. “He saved you!”
“Yes. He’d hid me in his house. His wife bandaged my feet, gave me oil for my lungs—they had been badly burnt.”
“And that’s not Christian kindness?” Rebecca said.
Grandmama laughed. “There’s no such animal, I tell you. Ramires wasn’t being kind to me. He needed me. He’d been my sentry the day I was chosen to be consumed by the conflagration, and had arranged to guard me for his own purposes. As the Almighty would have it, his son fell ghostly ill the day before the auto-da-fé and he wanted my arts. So when the smoke was thick, he unloosened my binds, wrapped me in burlap, and threw me to a waiting servant. In my place a live goat was sacrificed.”
“This happened in front of the Inquisitor’s eyes?” Rebecca asked incredulously.
The old woman began to choke with laughter. “In front of the Inquisitor…and the King and his piggy queen…and thousands of stinking Portuguese Papists! I wish I would have been awake to enjoy it!”
The hag doubled over with laughter that turned into spasmodic coughs. Rebecca gave her a sharp rap on the back.
“I cannot fathom such a feat,” she said.
“My granddaughter,” the crone said, wiping away tears from her eyes, “there is no way to describe how heavy was the air, how putrid and repulsive was the stench of burning flesh. If wizards can make themselves disappear behind their cloaks, if pigs can learn to count, if beggars can foretell the future with divine fits, how much easier is it to snatch a woman behind a blanket of smoke and fog! Who would have assumed so bold, so unexpected an act?”
Grandmama paused. “Now ponder this, granddaughter. Had I been reconciled to the Church, they would have been ‘merciful’ and garroted me before reducing my body to ashes. Ramires wouldn’t have had his chance to save me. But because I chose to die as a Jewess, God—blessed is He who has the power to restore Job—was merciful and let me live as a private, unmolested Jewess…of sorts.”
“If you call having your feet burnt away—to be left in life a cripple—merciful.”
“There are diverse qualities of mercy, young mistress.”
“I still cannot imagine how Ramires stole you away in front of all those watchful eyes.”
“He had accomplices.”
“Ah, he had help.”
“Aye,” said the crone. “Ramires knew what was required to operate so brazen a task. Later I found out that he’d bribed other sentries to secure their aid.”
“And they agreed?”
“I’m here to attest to the success of Ramires’s scheme. I was removed from the pyre, with nothing for feet save bones, and brought to the Señora Ramires. As I lay recovering from burnt lungs and feet, I mixed salves, medicines, potions, drugs, brought the child again back to health. My life depended on it.”
How many times had Ramires told her that if the child died, so would his nurse.
The old woman said, “Had Ramires been discovered harboring me, his whole family would have been murdered.”
“He risked his entire family to save his son?” Rebecca said.
“Yes.”
“That was most intemperate,” Rebecca said.
“Wait until you have children, my granddaughter. Perhaps then you’d not be so quick to condemn.”
Rebecca hugged her grandmother fiercely. “I thank God for what I consider to be Ramires’s poor judgment.”
“You’ll crush my bones, you stupid girl,” the old woman said. “Off of my body.”
Rebecca released her.
Grandmama continued her story. How Ramires kept her hidden for well over a year, until his son had grown robust. Then her presence was no longer needed. Ramires couldn’t just turn her loose. The Holy See might have found her and learned of the details of her escape. Instead, Ramires packed the hag into a crate, went out into the countryside, and sold her to a brothel.
Grandmama said, “At least as a whore I was not required to stand.”
“Oh Grandmama! How dreadful!”
“Not as dreadful as the dungeon. I used to thank God every morning for allowing me to see sunshine.”
“I love you,” Rebecca said, squeezing the old woman’s hand.
“Don’t you get mushy on me, mistress. I loathe sentimental tripe!”
“Oh, shut up, you bony old harpy!” Rebecca answered. She felt an encroaching yawn and stifled it. The need for rest had suddenly seeped into her body, but she had to hear more. “Tell me the rest of your tale. How’d you get to England?”
“By being well-spirited in bed.”
“Grandmama!”
The o
ld woman explained that she’d been nice to a certain man and he’d gotten word to her relatives. They’d bought her freedom, sent her to Turkey, and found her a husband—a crook-back missing one eye.
Grandmama said, “My husband David could not function as a man, yet he was my godsend.” The old woman’s eyes filled with tears. “My daughters, Rebecca! He found my babies. Brought them back to me! I will always worship him for that!” The old woman started to cry.
Rebecca was taken aback. Never had she seen her grandmother so suddenly emotional. Rebecca rocked the fragile body. “What…what babies?”
“Your mother and aunt…My babies were taken from me. In the brothel…I had become pregnant…twice. They took them away from me. Ah, the pain was so much worse than the fire that had eaten my flesh….”
The hag nearly collapsed with sorrow.
Rebecca said, “Stop—”
“No,” said Grandmama. “Someone must know the truth before I die. I have told no one, not your mother, not your aunt. I was afraid they would have hated me.”
“No, Grandmama. Never!”
“Daughters of a whore, their fathers unknown…”
“They love you!”
“How I loved them, my babies! Nothing else mattered to me. And they were ripped from my breast!”
“I pray you, stop these horrid memories!”
“No, Becca, painful memories they are, but not horrid. You must know. I cannot die in peace until I’ve unburdened my soul.”
Rebecca nodded for her to go on. The old woman stammered out how her husband David was deformed but wealthy. He used his money for good, searched for three years, until he found her babies. They’d been used as slaves by a wealthy couple in Braga, had been beaten when they worked too slow.
“Aunt Maria was six when she was brought to me,” the hag said. “Your mother was four.”
Rebecca was stunned. “Mother never told me.”
“Mother was too young to remember, thank God. Aunt Maria still possesses one or two dark shadows of her childhood, but actually recalls very little. Blessed is time. How mercifully it heals.” Grandmama wiped her eyes. “Maria responded readily to her Christian forename, and I continued to call her that. Your mother was such a quiet, scared little girl. She didn’t seem to care about her peasant name—Concepcion—so I named her Sarah, our first matriarch.”
The Quality of Mercy Page 45
