The Quality of Mercy Page 10

  “It’s not the Queen’s opinion of Spain I fear,” Thomas said, encircling his fingers around the hilt of his sword. So comforting was the chill of metal in his hand. “It’s the sentiment of the populace that worries me. Just walk down Paul’s at noon. Our countrymen cursed the Spaniard with a vengeance. If we were discovered dealing with Spain, the masses would tear us apart before the courts could try us.”

  “Essex owns the heart of the Englishman,” Dunstan said.

  “Essex is a fool,” Roderigo said, stroking his beard.

  How Thomas envied that mannerism.

  “Aye, but the fool is well loved by Her Grace,” he said.

  “So was Tarletan,” Roderigo said. “He had no say in foreign policy.”

  “She uses Essex for her purposes,” Miguel said.

  “And he uses her,” Dunstan said. “It is only a matter of time before Essex finds out. We must stop these intrigues—”

  Roderigo turned to Dunstan, eyes smoldering with rage. “Are you giving me orders, nephew?” he asked softly.

  Dunstan paled and quickly answered no.

  “Good,” said Roderigo. “You’ve been most helpful to us, Dunstan. Your sound mercantile practices have gained us much revenue. But remember your manners when you’re among elders.”

  Even if the elder was lower class, Dunstan thought. But he apologized anyway. This was not the time for confrontation.

  Roderigo said, “Neither Philip nor Elizabeth desire war. Philip is too old, and Essex notwithstanding, Elizabeth is no fool. The Queen does not fight in battles she cannot win.”

  Thomas said, “Uncle, it was Queen Elizabeth who embraced war with Spain and our Don Antonio in his bid for the throne of Portugal. Certainly that was a battle she didn’t win.”

  The door to the room opened and the conversation quieted to icy silence. Martino entered the closet clad in a blue gown over white broadcloth hose. The blackamoor carried a tray on which rested a jug of port and four goblets fashioned of Venice glass—a gift to Roderigo from Solomon Aben Ayesh. Roderigo was proud that such royal items were in his possession.

  Martino placed the tray on the table and lifted the goblets with special care. Despite his Levantine ancestry—the black eyes, the hook of the nose—Martino insisted he was brought up in the Protestant faith, and was a staunch supporter of the Church of England. Roderigo, knowing well the abuse that the converted Moors—the Moroscos—had suffered at the hands of the Spanish Church, immediately hired him. His kindness had been paid off by Martino’s loyalty.

  As the blackamoor poured the spirits, Roderigo thought of Don Antonio. God in heaven, the ass had had the perfect opportunity. Damn his incompetence! If only he’d been of stabler and stronger character. The conversos would have had one of their own on the throne. Now it seemed that the bastard had taken refuge in Eton, under Essex’s protection, and both of them hated his guts.

  Martino finished his duties and left the chamber.

  Roderigo said, “Don’t mention Don Antonio in my presence again. The monster still plagues us. He’s under Essex’s wing, and de Andrada has told me that he and Essex will stop at nothing to ruin us.”

  “Uncle, de Andrada is Don Antonio’s former spy,” Dunstan said. “He is also a perjurer, a noted liar, and a traitor. And before you unharness your anger against me, realize that you’ve said those very words many times in the past.”

  Roderigo said nothing.

  “Why do you continue to shelter de Andrada in your home?” Dunstan asked.

  Roderigo sat back down. “Dunstan, my nephew, you are indeed an idiot. De Andrada is a poisonous snake. He knows too much and is dangerous out of my watch…. And yes, Iadmit he’s dangerous inside my house as well. He is a damnable nuisance.”

  The room fell quiet. Damn them all, Roderigo thought, Don Antonio, de Andrada, Essex, Philip, Elizabeth. If he had the power and guts, he’d poison them all with a healthy dose of Indian acacia.

  Roderigo said to Dunstan, “You’ve asked to speak with me, to discuss the mission, express your worries about our safety. I contend we are safe—for now. But that doesn’t mean we haven’t become careless. Who knows how Raphael was exposed? We must use extreme caution in the future.”

  “Uncle,” Dunstan said. “I ask you if it’s worth it to continue at the expense of our own lives.”

  Roderigo said, “As long as we keep the monarchs happy with gold, the mission is on safe grounds…provided that Miguel is not caught, of course.”

  The comment reverberated in the quiet of the room. Thomas pulled a dagger from his belt and examined its fine-honed edge. Roderigo took a sip of port, smoothed his beard, then flicked a speck of imaginary dust off his round hose. Dunstan adjusted the cuff on his sleeve and glanced at Miguel, who finally spoke up.

  “I’m not worried,” he said. “Things are proceeding smoothly. Just a week ago I was able to carry out my first assignment and present papers to six stowaways. They’re now residing safely in the Low Countries.”

  “How did you contact them?” Thomas asked.

  Miguel explained how Esteban Ferreira de Gama had sneaked out the stowaways from a Spanish cutter late at night. It had been pouring rain and all of them were soaked and chilled, but no one could dare utter a sound, even a sneeze. The Almighty was merciful, Miguel said. The ship docked safely at Portsmouth. De Gama was the first to venture off the boat, and was elated to see England shrouded in mist. Good cover! He found some empty crates, packed the stowaways inside, then loaded them on an inbound ship as supplies. Miguel described how he was able to board the local ship, docked at the wharf on the Thames, and hand the stowaways their citizen’s papers.

  “They left the same night for Spanish Brussels,” Miguel said. “Father received word that they were successfully met by ‘David,’ who escorted them into Amsterdam.”

  “Well executed!” Roderigo cried with pride.

  “I thank you,” Miguel said. His eyes shifted back and forth between Dunstan and Thomas. “My friends, my brothers, if you could have seen the look of gratitude etched upon their faces, you would know that we’ve no choice but to continue our efforts—increase them if necessary. We’re saving lives!”

  Roderigo said, “And how do Sir Thomas and Sir Dunstan respond to that?”

  Thomas was the first to speak.

  “So be it,” he said.

  Dunstan didn’t answer.

  Miguel said, “Dunstan, my good man. There’s more to life than life itself.”

  “Miguel,” Roderigo said. “I’ve just received word from de Gama that another ship could be due in Plymouth a month from now. Do you feel able to meet the challenge?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good man!” Roderigo said. “Any comment from the knighted ones?”

  Thomas’s hand went to his dagger, then slipped by his side. He shook his head no. Dunstan rolled his eyes backward. Roderigo caught the gesture of contempt but said nothing. The boy knew he had been outvoted. No sense in pushing his nose into his failure.

  Roderigo rose from his chair—a signal for the others to stand as well. “Let us say our evening prayers. Lord knows how much we need guidance and forebearance.”

  After the men had finished the “Shemona Esreh,” the eighteen verses of Hebraic silent meditation, Miguel said,

  “If you have no more need of me, I shall be off. Thomas, be so good as to sport with me this week. Much of the art of fence I have yet to learn.”

  Thomas answered, “I have time now, if it is convenient for you.”

  “Good,” Miguel replied.

  “I shall take my leave as well,” Dunstan said.

  “Good day, Uncle,” Thomas said.

  “The three of you shall sup with us tonight,” Roderigo announced magnanimously.

  “If it pleases you,” Dunstan answered for the group.

  “I as well?” Miguel asked Roderigo.

  The doctor walked over to Miguel and hugged him tightly.

  “Yes,” he said. “You as well…my
son.”

  With Miguel in the lead, the three young men left Lopez’s private cell and descended the spiral stairway. Miguel ran down the long hallway, into Lopez’s library, and threw open the doors to the formal gardens. The Ames brothers followed at a slower pace. Miguel took a deep breath and let it out slowly. An iron bar had been lifted from his shoulders. He had been forgiven! He felt as swift as a hawk, as bold as a lion. Invincible. He saw Rebecca resting on a stone bench in the almond orchard and called out to her.

  Thomas caught up with Miguel and glared at him.

  “Do you want to gossip or sport,” he asked irritatedly.

  “Shall I ignore the bereaved?” Miguel was just as irritated.

  “Bereaved?” Dunstan whispered to his brother. “Never has she been more joyous.”

  Rebecca waved to the men, and Miguel ran ahead to her. She stood, held out her arms, and they embraced.

  “He has made amends?” she asked, but did not wait for the reply. “I knew he would. Father is a sheep in wolf’s clothing.” She mussed his hair. “And you’re continuing the intrigue?”

  “Dunstan has told you his doubts about the mission?”

  “No, Miguel,” Rebecca said. “I disclosed to him my doubts.”

  “His words were your idea, then,” Miguel said.

  She pulled away from him.

  Miguel said, “Becca, I must continue the work of Raphael—”

  “No!”

  “We’re saving lives.”

  “It isn’t enough that I mourn for Raphael?” she asked. “Must I mourn for you, also?”

  “I’m cautious—”

  “Your brother used caution. He’s dead.”

  Thomas and Dunstan approached, greeting their cousin with a customary kiss.

  “You’re upset,” Dunstan said to her.

  “How astute,” she answered. “You couldn’t talk him out of this?”

  “Miguel is stubborn,” Dunstan answered.

  “You’ll not be happy until you die a martyr,” she said to Miguel.

  “That’s not so.”

  She leaned her face against Miguel’s chest and held him. “I’m so worried. We are all so vulnerable.”

  “Nothing will happen to me—or you—or any of us,” Miguel insisted. He broke away from her grasp. “I must practice my swordplay, Becca. My skill is my accursed weakness. Pray, don’t worry about me.”

  “Teach him well, Thomas,” she whispered to her cousin.

  Thomas whispered he would, then he and Miguel left. Rebecca waited until the both of them were out of sight, then wrapped her cloak snugly around her body.

  “The mission turns Miguel’s mind to marchpane,” she said to Dunstan. “He’s drunk from a single sip of success, but it’s not pride that motivates him. It’s acceptance by my father, by you as well, cousin. Raphael used to call Miguel the eternal puppy, so eager to please and trusting he is.”

  “At seventeen I, too, was eager,” Dunstan said. “Life shall polish his senses.”

  “If he lasts long enough to benefit from experience.” Her eyes hardened. “And age has nothing to do with idealism. I’m no older than he, yet I’m as cynical as an old man of forty. Cannot you stop him, Dunstan?”

  “No.”

  “Then may God bless and help him.”

  “How do you feel, Becca?”

  “I’ve been confined here for weeks,” she answered. “Much time I’ve spent in prayer, but it has provided me with little solace. Just lethargy. Grandmama says that idleness has made me slow-witted.”

  “Perhaps she compares you to me,” Dunstan said.

  Rebecca laughed. “Dear cousin, an intelligence of wit assumes a whit of intelligence. One must have the latter to have the former.”

  Dunstan frowned.

  “Idleness has not made you less clever,” he said. “But it has made you more vicious than ever.”

  Rebecca cocked her head and pouted. Marry, she was lovely, Dunstan thought.

  “Shall I take you to Cheapside?” he asked.

  “Mayhap you mean to bed?”

  Dunstan bit his lip to hold back a smile.

  “If that be your desire.”

  “Go home to your wife.”

  Dunstan sat down and cradled his chin in the palms of his hands. He looked so troubled, Rebecca thought, but in a rather childish way. As if his mother had taken away his sweetmeats.

  “What is it?” Rebecca asked.

  Dunstan sighed. “Grace has been so unresponsive since she has foaled. I don’t understand it. I give her gifts, I’ve hired for her more servants than wait upon the King of Scotland. I’ve indulged her every whim.”

  “You might consider giving her attention.”

  “I’m very attentive.”

  “Aye, to the scullery maid, the milkmaid, the chandleress—”

  “I’m not a monk, Rebecca. Do not lecture me.”

  She became silent at the tone of his voice.

  “Come, cousin,” he said. “Let us take a ride to the country.”

  She shook her head. It would be disastrous to fill him with false hopes. The sparks she’d once felt for him had died years ago. She’d been just a little girl, and Dunstan had been her porthole to the world. Things were different now. She was no longer dependent on him to teach her things. Still, Dunstan persisted in trying to revive the past.

  “The country would do your nerves well,” he begged.

  “I thank you, but no.”

  “You’re a stubborn twit of a wench,” Dunstan said angrily.

  “Or a wit of a wench,” she smirked.

  He grabbed her. “Remember, it was I who broke you in.”

  “I remember it well,” she said.

  “Then why have you turned so cold to me?”

  Not wanting another exhausting confrontation, she smiled and stroked his cheek.

  “You look handsome, Dunstan.” She tugged the corners of his mustache. “The color red suits you well.”

  “You taunt me, Becca.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then bed me.”

  “Impossible.” She straightened out his ruff.

  “Why do you treat me as thus—the tongue of a kitten one moment, the bite of an asp the next?”

  “Blame it on the stars.”

  “You toy with my emotions.”

  “Dunstan,” she answered, “listen to me. Your cap houses one head, your codpiece the other. Think with the proper one. I’ve grown into a marriageable woman now. You must stop your ridiculous flirting.”

  “I love you.”

  “Would your ardor remain hot if I wore the battle scars that decorate Grace’s belly?”

  Slowly he released her from his grip. “I cannot stop thinking about you. You must marry before I do something…very foolish.”

  “You mean I must become pregnant, fat, and complacent. Then I will no longer be desirable.”

  Dunstan smiled sadly. “That is exactly what I mean.”

  “At the least, you’re truthful, if not honest.” She pushed him away. “Go home to Grace. Perhaps she’s not the wildest between the sheets, but indeed she’s served you well.”

  Rebuffed again, he stood, bowed, and doffed his hat, showing her the inside of his cap—a gesture of scorn. As he left, he turned to see her gathering almond blossoms in her skirt. Her black hair was loose and long, her ungloved hands so delicate and slender. He felt the sting and cursed what he once had, what he finally realized he had lost forever.

  Chapter 9

  Politics, politics, and more politics. It made Roderigo weary, and he almost wished himself a simple country doctor again. Putting down his quill, he reread the letter to Ferreira de Gama, admiring the strokes of his Italian hand, so rich with flourishes yet far easier to pen than the traditional secretary hand. Satisfied with the correspondence, he folded and sealed the letter, removed his spectacles and leaned back in his chair. Surrounded by solitude in his private closet, he tried to forget the discouraging words of his nephews.
But they buzzed through the air like gnats.

  What if Essex were to intercept their correspondence with Philip? What would it mean?

  Disaster!

  Blank failure from your mind, Roderigo told himself. Just use caution and worry not. There would always be naysayers. Let them say nay, he would say yea.

  The fire needed to be stoked. Rather than call a servant, he got up and poked the logs himself. The embers erupted into flames, and the gust of heat warmed his stiff hands.

  Roderigo regarded the hearth in his closet. The Great Hall was outdated, being warmed by only a central pit. It was time to mason a fireplace there. One that would hold a majestic mantel…a mantel carved from the finest walnut. And the hearth should be chiseled from Sicilian marble—deep green preferably, to match the view of the orchards from the leaded-glass windows. And a magnificent chimney puffing out big bellows of smoke so that all of London—and Essex—would know that the Great Hall of Dr. Roderigo Lopez was royally warmed, suitable for entertaining the most revered prince of state. He’d talk to Sarah. A dutiful wife, she’d arrange the details quickly. He had but to speak and Sarah would carry out his wishes.

  Lopez heard a knock upon the door. He asked who it was and his daughter identified herself. He allowed her to enter.

  Rebecca stood for a moment underneath the frame of the door. Roderigo was surprised to find her still dressed in black. He would have thought she would abandon the dark clothing as soon as her shiva—her first period of mourning—had finished.

  Mourning. It had only intensified her beauty, and that worried Roderigo. She had become as jumpy as a kenneled hound, and God only knew what would happen when she was freed from her obligatory month of grieving. An appropriate suitor had to be found lest he find himself the grandfather of a bastard. In his mind, Miguel was still the preferred son-in-law, despite his…whatever it was. He couldn’t imagine marrying her off to anyone but kinsmen. Perhaps there existed an appropriate suitor in the Low Countries or the Levant. He’d speak at length with Solomon and Sarah. They would know who the available men were. Another detail to arrange. He sank down into a padded armchair and called to Rebecca.