“I love thee.”
“I love thee too.” Shakespeare stood, picked up some balls of paper and smoothed them out. He read to himself and muttered, “This is dreadful…this equally as much. This is a bald embarrassment—”
Rebecca interrupted, “I believe thee not. Hand them to me.”
Shakespeare continued uncrumpling the paper. With reluctance, he finally handed her a sample of his attempts. He glanced over her shoulder as she eyed his writing.
“This was the best of my feeble efforts,” he said nervously.
Rebecca read out loud,
The quality of mercy is not strain’d
As gentle rain, it falls from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
’Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
a throned prince superior than his crown…”
She stood up and stared at him.
“It’s still in foul form,” Shakespeare explained.
She read the rest of it and said, “How could thou cast this aside like…like muck?”
“Something’s lacking.”
“Nothing’s lacking. It’s perfect. So deeply it will move Her Majesty to mercy. It has brevity of thought, clarity of purpose, elegance—”
“It’s void of passion, Rebecca,” Shakespeare said.
“Thou hast rocks in thy head,” she said, throwing her arms around him. She crushed her lips to his. “I must memorize these words at once.”
“Not yet. Let me amend—”
“Nothing needs amending.”
“Small things, Rebecca,” he said. “The order of subject-verb, the choice of words…It’s hard to explain. The rhythm is unbalanced.”
“Thou could true up the scales of justice on thy words, so balanced they are.”
Shakespeare was still not satisfied. He said. “The lines are well constructed if one intends to recite them in a play—a lawyer orating on behalf of his client. But a daughter pleading for her father’s life—”
“Thou speakest nonsense!” Rebecca said. “My God, Will, I’ll never be able to intone such beautiful words. They shall fall out of my mouth like rotten teeth.”
“Nothing coming out of that mouth could ever be rotten. Let me work with the words, Becca—”
“Oh Willy, even if we could get something that pleases thee, how shall I speak before a queen? I’ve never addressed anyone, let alone a monarch.”
“Well,” Shakespeare said, “I’m not the player that Richard Burbage is, that Harry Whitman was, but I’ve had experience performing before a hostile audience.”
“Then teach me all thou knowest,” Rebecca said.
Shakespeare said he would.
Crowds! Bodies upon bodies! Like maggots in rotten meat the people undulated and pushed to catch a glimpse of their monarch.
The royal progression departed from the palace at Greenwich, the Queen scheduled to travel to Lord Burghley’s residence in Theobald. The military escort was small but brilliantly displayed. The halberdiers in brightly colored livery—scarlet sleeves and jerkin, black hat, cinnamon hose with yellow panes, black shoes adorned with a velvet red. They were followed by ranks of pikemen and musket bearers—the finest of England’s soldiers. The military men were matched in numbers by a great cortege of mounted lords and ladies—a stunning show of exquisite dress. Yards and yards of embroidered velvet and silk flowed over glistening flanks of superior horses—bays, brindles, black and white stallions.
Lord Essex was in his full glory. As Master of the Horse, he had presented London a spellbinding progression. He led the retinue toward its first destination—a waterworks display upon the Thames, the first of the new year. Up until a week ago the Master of the Revels had not been sure the program was feasible, as much of the Thames was still caked with ice. But unseasonably warm March weather had sent the river flowing once again.
Elizabeth was in bright humor over the fortuitous weather. She sat behind a silk curtain in a gilded coach, pulled by six white horses. From time to time she’d draw back the curtain and wave a perfumed glove embroidered in gold thread at her subjects. As she did this, the cannons boomed, the people roared:
Long live Eliza!
Long live Eliza!
Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen. She had a lover named England, and nowhere had been consummated a more passionate affair. Her subjects, thousands of them gathered under gray skies, sang Gloriana’s praises.
Eliza is a fairest queen
That ever trod upon this green.
Eliza’s eyes are blessed stars
Inducing peace, subduing wars:
Eliza’s hand is crystal bright:
Her words are balm, her looks are light:
Eliza’s breast is that fair hill
Where virtue dwells and sacred skill.
O blessèd be each day and hour
Where sweet Eliza builds her bower…
The Queen rested upon a velvet seat and gleefully listened to the adulation of her people. She held in her hands a bouquet of two dozen roses, the stems void of thorns, their perfume pleasantly scenting the inside of the coach. Whimsically, Elizabeth plucked a rose, drew the curtain and tossed the flower to the cheering masses.
A goodly crowd, she thought. Essex had put on a grand retinue. She reminded herself to reward him if he maintained good behavior and kept his temper under control. What did she see in him? His rashness made for a very exciting man but an exceedingly poor statesman. But for the time being he was safe in his position. As Master of the Horse he could do little damage. As long as he didn’t reach beyond his capabilities, his position in court would be assured.
Elizabeth heard commotion outside the coach—her sentries commanding someone away. Twas not an unusual request. There was always some simpleton who wished a gracious word from his queen. It was her duty to bestow upon him cheer.
“Hold!” she ordered her coachman. “Stay the good person,” she commanded.
The royal coach horses were immediately jerked to a stop. The progression was halted.
Elizabeth drew back the curtain and leaned forward, expecting to see a day laborer garbed in a simple jerkin and galley slops. Such audacity and lack of manner was expected from one of the lower class. Instead the Queen was stunned to see Lopez’s daughter. This was not appropriate behavior for a gentlewoman, even one whose father sat in the Tower awaiting death! Yet Elizabeth saw the desperation in the girl’s eyes. The girl dropped to her knees, muddying her fine skirt of green silk. Her breasts were beautifully framed by a bodice of rose damask embroidered with silver thread. The Queen remembered their downy softness, recalled the soft curves of her body. Her black hair was neatly pinned, but that night it had been long and loose. Elizabeth recalled the warmth of the girl’s hands—beautiful they were, graced with slender fingers.
But now the gloveless hands shook with cold, her fingers raw and unadorned. The child was not wearing the ring she had given her. Then Elizabeth remembered: it had been evidence used to convict her father. Elizabeth sighed. What Coke had said was true. She had returned the ring to the girl when Essex had told her that the jewel was from the Spanish king.
Essex rode over to the coach. “What means this delay?” he yelled to the coachman.
“I commanded it,” Elizabeth said.
Essex eyed Rebecca, knee deep in mud. “Who is the girl?”
“I believe it is my former physician’s daughter,” said the Queen. “Am I correct?”
“As always, Your Grace,” Rebecca said. Her voice was small. Her eyes darted momentarily to Essex’s. His were filled with bitter hatred, but well matched by Rebecca’s own rage. Slowly, Rebecca grew bold enough to look at her queen.
Nine months ago Rebecca had lain with a woman weakened by fever, her body frail and small. But now she saw the power, the fortitude—the great equalizer that could raise the commoner to nobility, that could lower the sword of the executioner. Her Majesty�
��s face radiated absolute command, the royal eyes scrutinizing her: Was she properly dressed? Was she showing proper reverence? Had she displayed sufficient humility before her queen?
“Do you wish her removed?” Essex asked, containing his anger.
“If I had wanted her removed, I would have commanded her gone,” Elizabeth answered. She said to Rebecca: “Is it your intent to speak on behalf of your convicted father?”
Rebecca cleared her throat and managed to whisper, “If my audacity is tolerated by Your Grace.”
“It is tolerated,” said Elizabeth. Her eyes began to sparkle. “Speak.”
Rebecca paused, her mind in a state of panic.
Shakespeare’s words. They were gone from her head.
All the careful planning—how to intonate, how to enunciate, how to project without sounding like a blowhole—all of it had vanished. She sneaked a quick look over her shoulder. Willy was still there, frantically mouthing something to her. She didn’t comprehend a word of it.
Great God’s wounds! she thought. What now?
“Your most holy Grace…” she began. She paused, then spoke her heart: “I am nothing, a lowly yet devout servant of Your Majesty, born of humble birth and as devoid of peerage as a dung monger. I have naught to offer you, nothing to entice you to listen to my pleas. It is wholly presumptious of me to beg of you an audience. Yet as a daughter sired by a loyal subject of the crown, a girl whose father has been unjustly accused of most heinous treason, I beseech Your Excellence to lend me your ear.
“What cause have I to speak on behalf of my father? Yes, blood binds tightly the noose of filial devotion, making us children ready tapsters anxious to pour as soon as our parents sip. Yet no offspring can condone—all offspring must condemn—those who seek to tarnish the golden crown ordained by God. Tis a crime of humanity to do less. Yet I stand before you, most good and divine Queen, I stand before God and state that my father, Roderigo Lopez, is your true servant and bred no ill to the crown, no harm to mighty England.
“What are my father’s iniquities? If love of his fellow brethren be a felony, then yes, my father is a criminal. If the milk of human kindness is foul posset, I say yes, again, my father is a fiend. If liberating those unjustly sentenced to death is wrong, then let my father be hung. But if the quality of mercy springs from the wells of Your Grace’s soul, know that my father played out his deeds with a pure and tender heart.
“Facts do state that my father erred in judgment, executed decisions without benefit of your most excellent royal counsel. Yes, his plans were ill-conceived, ill-advised. And I know that Your Majesty must mete out punishment for this infraction. But to say that my father acted with malice, with a desire to endanger his queen and country, is to speak falsely. I pray Your Majesty, armed Athene and divine ruler of this land, consider my father’s crimes, but consider also the reasons why they were committed. Yes, my cries afoul come from daughterly obligation, but they leap out from my heart as well.
“I beg Your Majesty’s forgiveness for my impudence.”
Rebecca fell to the ground.
The Queen stared at her prostrated at the base of the royal coach. She raised an eyebrow, then said to Rebecca, “If your father did nothing else, he sired a most dutiful and eloquent daughter. Essex! Give Mistress Lopez a helping hand. She will ride with me to Burghley House.”
Essex stared at the Queen in disbelief.
“Come, come,” Elizabeth said. “Off your horse and help her now. Lest you want to give Mistress Lopez your own horse and go afoot.”
Essex felt his body go hot, felt his head about to explode.
Control, he managed to whisper under his breath. Slowly, he dismounted and extended his hand to Rebecca. She grabbed it, then squeezed it with all her might, hoping his rings would cut into his skin. She thought she saw him wince, but the expression dissipated so quickly she couldn’t be sure.
She looked over her shoulder. Willy was still there. Smiling. He brought his fingers to his lips and blew air upon the tips. A kiss…
One step up and into the coach.
Rebecca, muddy gown and all, was face to face with Her Royal Highness, Elizabeth Tudor, Queen of England.
Chapter 56
Riding with the Queen was like being trapped with a brooding tiger. It was hard to act invisible, but Rebecca did as best she could. She dared not speak to Her Highness, but couldn’t help chancing a quick glance. The Queen was wearing a gown of pure white, the topcoat of her bodice beaded with freshwater pearls. The royal wig was weaved with jewels and sparkled whenever Her Majesty turned her head. During most of the progression Rebecca sat straight-spined and stared left at the drawn curtain—the barrier that separated the coach and the outside world. It was red velvet worn bald at the hem. Strange, the details noticed from up close.
The bumpy ride, the fatigue, the emotional strain—all were descending upon her. She ached with exhaustion and fought to keep her eyes open. Nonetheless, she found her lids shutting, her head slumping forward. A minute later she realized that she was dozing and snapped her eyes open. The Queen was staring at her. Red-faced, Rebecca sat up and returned her eyes to the curtain.
Invisible.
The crowd outside cheered as loud as a thunderstorm, the noise crescendoing every time Her Majesty opened the curtain and waved a rose. The carriage wheels sloshed through mud puddles for another twenty minutes before Her Majesty halted it. This time it was for a day laborer who wished a good word for his daughter. The Queen extended her hand through the side panel and placed it upon a towheaded lass of five. She blessed the girl, her good parents, and all the good people of England.
With a pull of the reins, the coach resumed its progress.
Once again Rebecca felt the heat of royal eyes upon her. She sneaked another glance at the Queen. There was anger in the black orbs, a smoldering glare that sent a shiver down Rebecca’s spine.
What was displeasing Her Majesty now? Rebecca thought hard, noticing the Queen’s hands brush against her ear. The gesture was repeated.
My earrings, thought Rebecca.
The royal lobes were adorned with pearl drops surrounded by diamonds. Rebecca’s ears were also bejeweled with pearls and diamonds, and her pearls were not only bigger than Elizabeth’s, but of more perfect symmetry and superior luster. Special earrings—a family heirloom loaned to her by Aunt Maria for this occasion.
With a shaking hand, Rebecca removed the earrings. She asked for permission to speak, and the Queen granted her request.
“I have been of unclear head of late.” Laying the earrings in her open palm, Rebecca offered them to the Queen. “I pray madam to forgive my stupidity. These are from my fam—” She thought again. “These are but a humble gift from me to Your Majesty.”
The Queen regarded Rebecca. She took off her own earrings and dropped them in Rebecca’s hand.
“Which of the two sets is the superior?” Elizabeth asked.
A game. If Rebecca answered hers were better, she would be insulting the royal jewels. If she lied and said the Queen’s were the fairer earrings, she would show herself to be just another sycophant.
Rebecca said, “I am not worthy to offer an opinion.”
“Offer one anyway,” pressed the Queen.
Rebecca hesitated, then scrutinized the earrings as if she were giving the Queen’s question serious consideration. She finally answered, “As madam well knows, bigger isn’t always better.”
Elizabeth laughed, then said, “But sometimes it is.” She slipped Rebecca’s earrings on and, retrieving her earrings from Rebecca’s palm, dropped them in her purse. “I accept your gift.”
“Thank you, madam.”
The Queen drew back her curtain once more, waved to the crowd. Another half hour of riding in silence. Finally the coach stopped for the first of its two destinations. Elizabeth peered through the crack of the curtain and regarded the throne that the Master of the Revels had set up for the waterworks display. The chair was gold, the seat and back
padded with purple velvet. It was placed under a canopy decorated with vines and flowers—adequate protection if the rains returned. Elizabeth pulled out a looking glass from her purse and adjusted the crown atop her auburn wig. Neat and precise. She dropped the glass back in her purse and waited. A minute later Essex opened the door to her coach. He extended one hand to his queen and placed the other arm around her small waist. Gracefully, he swept her out of the coach, then closed the carriage door behind her.
Rebecca sat without moving a muscle.
She heard the Master of the Revels, Sir Edward Tilney, greet the Queen with all the expected lavish praise: The great and wise Virgin Queen, she was the mightiest prince among princes, how stunning was her gown, how brightly jeweled was her hair, how fortunate he was to have an opportunity to put on this show for her.
In a charmingly gay voice the Queen answered in Italian: Your lips are brown from eating shit.
The Master of the Revels cooed with delight at what he mistakenly perceived to be a compliment.
Rebecca couldn’t help herself. She giggled, then covered her mouth when she heard no laughter coming from the outside. She could only guess that no one else had understood the Queen’s words. Sir Edward heaped more flummery upon his royal mistress and bade her to her throne.
“A minute,” Elizabeth answered, extending her gloved hand for Sir Edward to kiss it.
He was dismissed.
The Queen gave a hard rap on the door and said, “Open up.”
Rebecca swung open the carriage doors. Elizabeth climbed in, shut them tight and drew the curtains. The woman was in her sixties but was as light on her feet as a crane.
Royal eyes fell upon Rebecca, stern and hard. Elizabeth said, “I shall have to watch my words around you.”
Rebecca felt her heart bang against her chest.
“What other languages do you understand?” asked the Queen. “Besides Italian…and Portuguese and Spanish. No doubt you understand those quite well.”
The Quality of Mercy Page 60
