The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  Rebecca nodded.

  “What else?” pressed the Queen.

  “A bit of German,” Rebecca whispered.

  “And?”

  “Some Arabic from my father’s medical books.”

  “And?”

  “A wee crumb of French.”

  “Do you speak Chinese, the language of Cathay?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No madam.”

  “Ignoramus.” The Queen’s eyes were dancing now. “Have you a good, solid working knowledge of Latin?”

  “Not as poor as some, not nearly as well-versed as Your Majesty.”

  Elizabeth studied her. She said, “Write me a speech in Latin. I have to address a group of scholars tonight and I haven’t had time to write one myself. Make it long, make it complicated, make it exceedingly tedious and boring. I want to test the attention span of England’s educated.”

  “As you will, madam.”

  “I am going, now, to watch a pageant of waterworks. If the gunpowder is dry, it is my understanding that Sir Edward has planned a surprise fireworks display for me as well. You stay here and write my speech.” She looked at the mud stains on Rebecca’s gown. “I’ll have one of my ladies bring you a suitable dress. Bright blue pleases me. Twould compliment your coloring.”

  “A perfect choice,” Rebecca said.

  Elizabeth paused. “I should have insisted that you become one of my maids. I would have had great use for your linguistic talents. Events past might never have occurred with you in court. Now, of course, it’s too late.”

  Rebecca lowered her head and fought back tears.

  Elizabeth furrowed her brow and asked, “And how is your aged grandam?”

  Rebecca jerked her head to attention. Then she remembered: Grandmama had been her excuse for not accepting the position at court.

  Grandmama. Rebecca had ritually washed the wasted body. She could still feel the delicate bones, the texture of cold, sagging skin…

  Do not cry!

  “Dead, madam,” Rebecca answered.

  “Dead?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. It happened around the same time as my father’s arrest.”

  “You’ve hit upon quite a streak of misfortune.” Elizabeth thought for a moment, then said, “You will come with me to Burghley House. We’ll have an opportunity to speak in privacy. Then, I suppose, you’ll be anxious to return to your mother.”

  “If it pleases madam.”

  “I’m not certain it does please madam, but you’ll have my permission to leave.” She kicked open the door, clipping Essex in the ear. He held the side of his head and bit back pain. The Queen howled with laughter.

  “Not very subtle, Devereaux,” she said. “Would Lord Essex be so kind as to do service for his queen?”

  Essex extended his hand, and Elizabeth stepped out of the carriage. She thwacked him on his sore ear with the back of her hand.

  “How dare you eavesdrop!”

  Essex didn’t answer.

  “Retrieve a quill, ink, and paper for Mistress Rebecca,” the Queen told him. “Then join me for the pageant. You may sit at the foot of my throne.” She pinched his cheek playfully. “I need a handsomely dressed lapdog.”

  With utmost care Rebecca drew back the curtain and peeked outside. The Queen had left Essex standing alone. The lord’s cheeks were bright red. He was clenching his fists.

  The night had passed the witching hour before Rebecca was finally settled in Burghley House. Her cell, a small chamber off of the guest quarters, barely accommodated a bed and a hearth. She lay upon the mattress and closed her eyes.

  The Queen had been pleased with the speech Rebecca had written. She’d promised to speak with her tomorrow, at five in the morning.

  What would Her Majesty say?

  Don’t expect miracles.

  Don’t expect miracles.

  Don’t expect miracles….

  Rebecca did not sleep at all. At four-fifteen she lit her candlestick and dressed quickly. The corset prepared by the queen’s maids fit perfectly around her waist but was too tight for her bosom. She looked as if she were holding her breath. No matter. The Queen would probably think it quite suitable. Besides, she had more important things on her mind than her dress.

  At quarter to five a knock sounded at her door.

  Her hair was knotted and held in place by gold and ivory combs. She would offer them to the Queen. With what else could she entice the monarch to mercy?

  Snowbird perhaps. Father had often said the gyrfalcon was the envy of every eye—

  The knock repeated itself louder.

  She was trembling as she opened the door. A pair of sentries dressed in the Queen’s livery—one with a black beard, the other clean-shaven—greeted her. They stepped aside and allowed Rebecca to cross the threshold, then led her down a dark foyer toward the Queen’s lodgings.

  Halfway to the royal chambers the clean-shaven sentry stopped and sent the other guard away on an errand. He walked with Rebecca a few feet, then pulled her into a dark corner. She noticed his hands were shaking. She thought the man odd. He said, “I must search you for weapons.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Have you a dagger hidden in your skirt, mistress?”

  “No—”

  “Reflecting upon your parentage, your word is not trustworthy, Mistress Rebecca Lopez. I take every precaution to protect my queen.”

  “But—”

  “What are you hiding, Jewess?”

  “Nothing—”

  “Then why do you falter?”

  “I—”

  He pushed Rebecca down, fell upon her and clamped his palm over her mouth. Freeing one hand, he pulled out a dagger from his jacket and held it in front of her eyes.

  “You were hiding this in your skirt, were you not?”

  Rebecca shook her head emphatically, rigid with terror.

  “I say you were!” said the sentry.

  “No,” Rebecca mumbled out.

  “Shut up!” the sentry whispered. He began to undo his hose and codpiece.

  Dear God, Rebecca thought. She blinked back tears and struggled in his grip.

  “Stop it!” the guard hissed. “Stop squirming or I’ll kill you.”

  Rebecca forced her body to go slack. He smiled, showing a mouth missing front teeth. His breath was foul.

  “That’s better,” he said. “If you fight me…” He was lifting her skirt up. “If you utter a sound, I shall say I found this dagger hidden in your dress and, just like your doggish father, you desired harm against your queen. Do you understand me?”

  Rebecca nodded, tried to remain passive, but there was something so evil about his touch. She couldn’t help herself. She bit his hand and cried out.

  He was momentarily stunned. Rebecca screamed again. Recovering, the sentry slapped his hands over her nose and mouth, but the noise had attracted attention. In seconds they were surrounded by torches. The clean-shaven sentry quickly stood and frantically tried to retie his points.

  “She was going to kill Her Majesty,” he explained, his fingers entwined with string. “I found a dagger—”

  “You found what?” interrupted a low-pitched female voice.

  The sentry looked up, then dropped to his knees.

  The Queen cast her eyes upon Rebecca curled into a tiny ball, then upon the guard. “You found what?” she repeated.

  “A d-d-dagger, Your Majesty,” stuttered the sentry.

  “Are you saying that this girl was armed with a dagger?”

  The sentry nodded. His hose and codpiece were tied messily, his shirttail hung out of his doublet.

  “Are you implying that the girl meant to do harm to her queen?”

  “Yes…Yes, exactly, Your Majesty.”

  Elizabeth said nothing.

  “Here…” The guard held up the dagger. “Here is the weapon, Your Highness.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes shifted from his face, to his codpiece, to Rebecca lying on the floor. Her skirt was still hiked over her knees.
The Queen returned her eyes to the sentry.

  “And why would she desire me harm?” Elizabeth continued.

  The sentry felt his voice strings constrict. He whispered hoarsely, “Her father is a traitor.”

  “And that is your explanation?” the Queen queried.

  “Yes…I mean, Your Highness…” The sentry’s bladder exploded and warm, wet liquid drenched his hose. “She was following her father’s orders—”

  “She’s not had contact with her father in three months,” said Elizabeth. “Are you telling me that this girl—whose father’s life rests in my hands—desired me willful malice?”

  The sentry nodded, but weakly. He realized the futility of his argument.

  The Queen kept staring at him.

  “Oh merciful Jesu!” he cried out.

  Elizabeth said to the guard on her right, “Bring the girl into my chambers.”

  Rebecca felt herself lifted to her feet. She waited a moment to catch her breath, smoothed out her skirt and dried her tears upon her gloves. One of the combs had fallen out of her hair. She picked it up, repinned a tress of loose hair, then allowed herself to be led away.

  Elizabeth hadn’t taken her eyes off the sentry. She stared at him for a minute, two minutes, four minutes, until the man was a heap of quivering gel and admitted his lies. Yes, he had tried to have his way with the girl. But only to teach her a lesson. She was of treasonous stock. He begged for mercy, pleaded for the sake of his wife and children. Elizabeth remained as cool as soapstone. When the man had finished his begging, he began to pray. Elizabeth grew weary of the performance.

  Finally she said to no guard in particular, “Take him to Newgate.” She walked several steps, then added, “Have him hanged.”

  Rebecca managed to regain superficial composure by the time the Queen and her ladies entered the Privy Chambers. The room, built for Elizabeth, was fifty feet in length, sixty feet high, the coffers of its ceiling leafed with gold. Intricate arras work was displayed not only on the walls, but covered the floor as well. The Queen promenaded across the chamber, her women following her like a bridal train, sat down in her throne and motioned Rebecca forward. Feeling as soiled as muck, Rebecca carefully tried to avoid stepping on the tapestries—an impossible task—and her tiptoed dance made Elizabeth smile. Rebecca stopped ten feet from the royal throne and began her deep curtsy of reverence. Elizabeth pointed to a velvet pillow at her feet and told her to sit. She sent her female attendants away, leaving only two guards posted at the door. Rebecca lowered herself onto the cushion, her bluebell-colored skirt encircling her like a pool of springwater.

  “Men are animals,” Elizabeth said. “My stepmother’s husband tried to have his way with me when I was your age.” She clucked her tongue. “He was beheaded.”

  Rebecca knew she was referring to Thomas Seymour but said nothing. She removed the combs and wordlessly offered them to Elizabeth. The Queen inspected them and nodded approval.

  “Your earrings, your combs…If you continue, you’ll soon find yourself with naught but a chemise.” Elizabeth plucked a stone from her jeweled wig. It was an emerald. She picked off three more, then handed them all to Rebecca.

  “I couldn’t accept—”

  “Nonsense,” argued Elizabeth. “Of course you can. You can and will do everything I request of you, and I’m requesting you to take these. Go on…before I change my mind. I’m known to be sudden in my moods. God’s wounds, girl, take advantage of my good humor.”

  Rebecca took the jewels and thanked her profusely. Elizabeth stood, stepped over Rebecca’s feet then strolled around the chambers. Dawn was creeping through the mullioned windows, throwing a checkerboard of light upon floor tapestries. The walls underneath the arras work were draped with red damask cloth, the royal crest embroidered in silver, gold, and blue. Elizabeth ordered one of the guards to extinguish the wall torches.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked.

  “No, madam.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “My stomach is accustomed to waiting until dinner for food.”

  The response pleased Elizabeth. She faced Rebecca and said, “Your father’s foolishness is unfathomable. Simply incomprehensible. That he was corresponding with the King of Spain there is no doubt, child. And that he was involved in personal negotiations with His Majesty without my knowledge, again that is fact.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “The question is, for what purpose.”

  Rebecca didn’t answer.

  “I do not take lightly my signature that condemns a man to death, and I have signed your father’s death warrant—You’re shivering. Would you like a blanket?”

  “It is not necessary, madam.”

  “As you will.” Elizabeth stood up again. “I am deeply perturbed. I cannot ignore the evidence against your father. He did present me a ring and hid its origins for reasons unbeknownst to me. Yet even though I signed the warrant and handed it to a cheering parliament, I hesitate to release him from the Tower and send him to death. I must ask myself why.”

  She walked over to the window and peered into a steely sky. “Do I believe he is guilty of consorting with the enemy? There is no question the answer to this is yes. Do I believe he wished me malice…I know not. How would he have benefited from my demise?”

  She waited for an answer.

  Rebecca said, “My father would have gained nothing.”

  “Money, from His Majesty Philip?”

  “No godly creature would dare compare mere coins to the heavenly graces that madam has bestowed upon us.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “In sooth, why was he corresponding with His Majesty?”

  Rebecca took a deep breath and said, “He was paying His Majesty to redeem those condemned to the atrocities of the Catholic Inquisition.”

  “Did he redeem some secret Jews as well?”

  “Mayhap among the doomed were secret Jews.”

  Elizabeth began to pace. Her eyes were deep in reflection, very troubled. “Your father is a fool,” she repeated. “Why didn’t he come to me?”

  “He should have done so.”

  “A fool,” she said. “A stupid, idiotic dolt.” She turned to Rebecca and said, “But an excellent physician. For eight years under his care I have lived in good health. Yet the Queen’s bench has convicted him of treachery, the good people of England demanded his limbs on the gates of Tyburn. What was I to do but sign the warrant?”

  Rebecca knew this question was rhetorical. She said, “Her Majesty rules with truth and justice as her armed companions.”

  Rebecca’s answer added to the old woman’s burden. The Queen said, “I shall stay his execution scheduled for April and reflect upon the situation.”

  “Thank you, madam,” Rebecca answered. Her lower lip was trembling.

  Elizabeth added, “I suppose Ferreira de Gama’s execution must be stayed as well. One goes with the other.” She turned to Rebecca and said, “As long as Roderigo remains in the Tower under my auspices, he will be safe. If for any reason he is taken from the Tower, he is at the hands of the law and will be executed. I will double the watch upon him to make certain no attempts are made to remove him from his cell.”

  Rebecca prostrated herself before the Queen and wept openly.

  “Come, come, child,” Elizabeth chided. “Dignity.”

  Quickly, Rebecca dried her eyes and waited for the Queen to speak.

  “You may leave,” Elizabeth said.

  “Madam?”

  “Dear God, what is it now, girl? No fawning words of praise, I hope.”

  “I pray you, madam, have I the right to entertain a glimmer of hope that my family might be allowed visitation privileges while Her Majesty conducts most burdensome judgment?”

  “You want to see your father?” Elizabeth said.

  “Yes, madam. My mother and brother as well—”

  “Stop,” Elizabeth said. “You may see your father. Only you. You shall carry his wishes—if he has any—to your kinsmen
. I’ll not allow anyone else to see him.”

  “Yes, madam. Thank you, madam.”

  “You may leave,” Elizabeth said. “Someone will take you back to London.”

  Rebecca departed before the Queen could undergo another shift of mood.

  Chapter 57

  Rebecca heard the cry of the watchman. It was an hour past midnight, and she lay in Shakespeare’s arms, wide awake, resentful that her lover was sleeping so soundly. But why shouldn’t he sleep? It wasn’t his father locked in the Tower, Father’s fate wasn’t held in his hands. She sighed out loud. “What is it?” Shakespeare asked, not bothering to open his eyes.

  “Go back to sleep.”

  Shakespeare didn’t say the obvious, that it was impossible to sleep with her fidgeting and moaning. “Becca, my love, talk to me. Unburden thy soul.”

  “Why should thou suffer my ills?”

  “Pray, talk to me,” Shakespeare repeated.

  “No,” Rebecca said. “Thou should speak to me. Get my mind off of my woes, off of tomorrow and the Tower. Gods, Willy, what will I say to Father?”

  “Speak as thou didst with the Queen, Becca. Speak thy heart.” Shakespeare laughed to himself.

  “What strikes thee as merry?” Rebecca asked.

  Shakespeare said, “Strange what flashes in the mind at times like these. I hear Harry lecturing to me, ‘Suit the action to the word, the word to the action!’ Harry was always giving me bits of advice, especially when he was drunk.” He kissed her softly. “I hope I’m not waxing pompous with thee.”

  Rebecca smiled and shook her head no. She said, “Speak to me of Harry’s murder.”

  “God’s sointes, Becca—”

  “Twill take my mind off tomorrow.”

  Shakespeare exhaled, rolled onto his back. He was fully awake now. Speak of Harry’s murder? What was there to talk about? He wasn’t any closer to the solution than he’d been eight months ago and it frightened him. Shakespeare’s father in London—Harry Whitman—the man who’d cared for him in the big city, had nurtured his acting and bookwriting talents. Whitman’s soul wandering eternity, unable to find rest until the murderer was caught.