The Quality of Mercy Read online

  Roderigo Lopez was nearly sick with exhaustion and worry. Thank God Rebecca had proved herself to be a strong girl. Not an easy chore. The funeral had been a long ordeal, the church service full of pomp and prayer that left the conversos noticeably uncomfortable. As professed Protestants but secret Jews, they were members of the local parish and attended sabbath services as required by the law of the land. But they tried to be as late for church as possible, sometimes not arriving until the conclusion of the service. Roderigo knew that the other parishoners noticed their tardiness. But the congregants never voiced a word of protest because the parish priest always greeted the conversos warmly. The secret Jews were paying him well. Though they breathed easier in England than in their native land of Portugal—there was no Inquisition here, praise God—they were still forced to hide their worship from prying eyes. An extremely difficult task. Like most landed gentry, Roderigo’s household—and that of his brother-in-law—contained many servants. Discovery of their secret religious services would brand them as Jews, which would mean deportation.

  Now, with the servants gone—privacy at last—the conversos could begin the true service of mourning. Dunstan closed the massive doors to the room and the assembled men stood up from the bench, retrieved black skullcaps from their pockets and covered their heads. Roderigo looked at the men—his son, two nephews, a brother-in-law, and a distant cousin. Five grim faces, worn but visibly relieved to be away from the Gentiles. He nodded for his cousin, Solomon Aben Ayesh, to lead the services.

  Lopez envied Aben Ayesh. Solomon was the only one amongst them who was an openly professed Jew—a luxury he was now afforded since he no longer lived in Europe. Solomon was short and as thin as a reed, with midnight-blue eyes which appeared black at a distance. As a diamond farmer in India, Aben Ayesh had become rich and powerful—so formidable a man that the Turkish court had rewarded him with the title of Duke of Mytilene. His network of spies was well known throughout the Continent by monarchs who ignored his religious beliefs in order to secure his confidence and, by extension, his privied information. Even though Lopez, as the Queen’s physician, held an enviable position in England, he had none of Aben Ayesh’s religious freedom and independence.

  Roderigo listened to Aben Ayesh’s prayers said in Hebrew, then repeated the words out loud. Aching, he felt all of his sixty-eight years. He sucked in his overhanging belly—his stamp of wealth—and straightened his spine. When praying to God, one should stand erect. The Almighty had been kind to him—a good wife and two living, healthy children, one of them a son. God had been good to him physically as well. The hair atop his head was still plentiful, and his skin was nearly wrinkle free, as if Father Time had aged him in leap years. His beard remained as dense as moss and youthfully colored—deep burgundy mixed with rust and wisps of silver.

  Roderigo thought back to his first shiva—the official ceremony of Jewish mourning. It had been a clandestine affair in Toledo, held for a cousin burnt as a heretic. Roderigo had just turned thirteen, the age of Jewish manhood, and had been told only recently of his converso bloodline by his parents. Marry, what a revelation that had been! Despite the shock, and danger, that lay ahead, Roderigo decided to remain faithful to his forefathers. He wanted to be a healer of mankind and chose to study medicine—the learned art of the Jewish people. He entered the Universidad Literaria de Salamanca in Spain, graduating with high honors and a medical degree.

  Desiring more liberty for his secret practices, Roderigo moved to England during the first years of Elizabeth’s reign, hoping to find relief from the Inquisition; the Virgin Queen was known for a tolerant monarch. As long as her subjects openly supported her and her Church, she chose not to ferret out those who worshiped differently in private. She did this to retain the support of the thousands of secret Papists who still resided in the northern region of the country. But it had a secondary beneficial effect for Roderigo as a secret Jew. As long as he went to the local church, he could practice his religion in the privacy of his own home.

  When it was time to marry, Lopez stayed dutiful and chose a wife from the old country—a Portuguese conversa girl twenty years his junior, a cousin of Solomon Aben Ayesh. The doctor brought her over to England, and they settled down to daily life.

  Lopez rose to prominence in his field, becoming a member of the College of Physicians and the first house physician at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. His reputation merited him the appointed physician to the Earl of Leicester. This led to the coveted position of Physician-in-Ordinary to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, seven years ago, a position he still held.

  But for all his honors, Roderigo couldn’t save Raphael. Teary-eyed, he averted his gaze downward. He’d lost not only a dear friend, but a son-to-be. Such a sorrowful death.

  Aben Ayesh finished the prayers and instructed the men to rip the stitching of their doublets then sit on the floor. Roderigo noticed Dunstan wincing. His nephew had been foolish enough to wear a gold-threaded doublet—vain peacock that he was. Roderigo glanced at his son, placed his hand upon his shoulder. Benjamin had just finished Oxford and was planning to go abroad to Venice when the news of Raphael’s death came tumbling upon the family. Roderigo had insisted his son stay for the funeral, but instructed him to leave afterward. Benjamin was kind and generous, thanks be to God the boy was not an ingrate, but unlike his sister, he was slow of wit. A plodder, Roderigo had told his wife Sarah. Roderigo hoped that travel would teach him more successfully than had the university.

  Lopez sat on the sweet-smelling rushes next to Benjamin. Across from him were Dunstan and his brother Thomas—a smooth-faced fair man of nineteen. Thomas was built lanky, with long, thin, effeminate fingers. The boy cursed his body often and lashed out frequently at anyone who suggested he was anything less than a man. His quick temper had necessitated early in life an expertise of swordplay. Thomas was renowned for his skill of the fence—much to Dunstan’s displeasure. Thomas could easily best his older brother with a few quick strokes.

  Roderigo faced his brother-in-law, Jorge Añoz—Sir George Ames outside the converso community. Jorge had married Sarah’s sister. Good women, thought Roderigo, gentle and dutiful wives. Roderigo thought of his and Jorge’s mistresses and mentally added, tolerant women as well. He said to Jorge, “Raphael needs a replacement as soon as possible.”

  Dunstan twisted a braided gold chain around his first finger, then let it fall back against his chest. Surely they didn’t mean him.

  Jorge said, “We must find out who told the Spanish captain that Raphael was on board.”

  “What makes you think that someone told the captain?” Roderigo said. “He could have simply been found by one of the crew, hiding with the stowaways.”

  “Not in a galleon,” Jorge said. “The vessel is so big, twould be an incredible bit of luck to find someone well hidden. So many hatches and compartments.”

  “Well, someone found Raphael and the stowaways,” Aben Ayesh said. “Someone handed them over to the Inquisition. But that must not deter us. Too many lives depend on us, on this mission. When was the last time you communicated with the Spanish king, Ruy?”

  “I’ve yet to receive word from King Philip,” answered Roderigo.

  But Roderigo knew he would hear from His Majesty soon. Another payment was due.

  “Do you think he knows what happened?” Jorge asked him.

  “I don’t know,” Roderigo said. “But if he is aware of this mishap, we’ll have to increase the payments greatly.”

  All the men groaned. They were already paying the Spanish King a fortune in bribe money.

  “Can you discreetly get word to His Majesty, Ruy?” Aben Ayesh asked. “Find out what he expects from us?”

  Roderigo shook his head. “Transactions such as this one may only be made under the most private of conditions. If, God forbid, our correspondence is discovered, Philip will be angered—beyond repair this time.”

  Everyone knew what Roderigo meant. Four years ago, at Roderigo’s and Jorge’s pr
odding, Queen Elizabeth had abetted the revolt of Don Antonio against King Philip. Don Antonio was an illegitimate descendant from the royal house of Portugal. With English forces at his side, Antonio had rallied his people to revolt against the tyrannical yoke of Spain. It had been a well-placed scheme at the time, and had Don Antonio been of stabler character, it would have worked. The Queen hoped to set up Don Antonio as King of Portugal and gain a formidable ally against Spain in the Iberian peninsula. The conversos wanted Don Antonio as monarch because he was of Jewish descent. Perhaps, as king, Don Antonio would do away with the Inquisition in Portugal—if not abolish the tribunal, at least restrict its powers.

  Unfortunately Her Majesty’s fleet, commanded by Sir John Norris and Sir Francis Drake, failed miserably, their attacks easily repelled by King Philip’s Armada. All were left with much to explain. To restore faith with King Philip, appease his wrath, and prevent repercussions against the Spanish conversos, Aben Ayesh paid Philip the enormous sum of fifty thousand ducats. Philip’s anger abated and he allowed their mission to progress without interference. To mollify the irate Elizabeth, Jorge opened the coffers of his lucrative spice business—chartered as the Ames Levantine Trade Company—and stuffed the royal treasury with as much gold as his purses would allow. Her Majesty was forgiving. As a token of her merciful nature, she kept Lopez on as her personal physician and knighted Jorge and his two sons.

  “We need another man quickly,” Aben Ayesh stated. “I’ve yet to speak with Hector, but it seems that Miguel, being Raphael’s brother, is the logical replacement for the mission.”

  “For Rebecca’s husband as well,” Roderigo added.

  Dunstan cleared his throat, flicked away the rushes about him. It was as good as any chance to tell him. Perhaps, with the other men around, Roderigo would exercise some control over his temper. Again the chain was entwined around Dunstan’s finger. He asked permission to speak freely from his father. Jorge nodded.

  “Dear Uncle,” Dunstan started off, “Miguel would be an ill-advised husband for Rebecca.”

  Roderigo stared at his nephew. “Ill-advised?”

  Dunstan nodded.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Roderigo stated. “It is Miguel’s religious duty to his brother. He must marry Rebecca and produce a son in his brother’s name.”

  Dunstan hesitated, then said, “Such a union would be doomed, Uncle.”

  “Where do you come to assert such a statement?” Roderigo asked. “Miguel and Rebecca have known each other for years, they are very fond of each other. She was only promised to Raphael because he was the elder of the two boys. One’s as suitable as the other for a husband. Besides, Miguel has no choice. It’s our law.”

  Dunstan looked to his brother for help.

  “Uncle,” Thomas said gently. “Miguel is Italian in his practices of love.”

  Roderigo’s eyes widened.

  “What?” he said. It came out a whisper.

  “Where did you hear such twaddle?” Jorge demanded of Thomas.

  “From Miguel himself,” Thomas answered, rubbing his naked chin.

  “He told us, Father, as soon as he was sure that it was Raphael who’d perished,” Dunstan said.

  “Why wasn’t I told?” asked Jorge.

  “He begged for no one to know until Uncle had been informed,” Dunstan answered his father. “I thought it best not to contest his wish, seeing the emotional state he was in.”

  “Miguel is a buggerer of men?” Roderigo said, horrified.

  Thomas nodded.

  “Tis not that uncommon, Uncle,” Dunstan said. “Quite the fashion in Venice.”

  Roderigo looked at his son.

  “No worry, Father,” Ben reassured. “I find the thought very distasteful.”

  “We must get back to business,” Aben Ayesh said uncomfortably. “Ruy will deal with his matters as he sees fit—”

  “I refuse to believe it,” Roderigo interrupted.

  “Ruy—” Aben Ayesh said.

  Roderigo stood up and began to pace. “I cannot believe it!”

  “Perhaps it’s simply a ruse,” Jorge suggested. “Perhaps the thought of sudden marriage has left Miguel with cold feet.”

  Thomas shook his head. “Dunstan and I have known long before Raphael perished. Many times we’ve seen Miguel roaming St. Paul’s Marketplace, frequenting places that specialize in…Italian taste. He fancies himself quite a wit, accompanying the likes of Marlowe—”

  “Miguel with Marlowe?” Roderigo gasped. “That godless heretic, that hater of Jews? Impossible!”

  “Love is strange,” Dunstan snickered.

  Roderigo slapped him soundly across the cheek. Dunstan’s hand went to his face. His eyes burned with fury.

  Roderigo said, “How dare you mock your cousin?”

  Dunstan spoke slowly, “I mock him not. I simply tell you the truth, whether it be acceptable to you or not, Uncle. I pray you, do not kill the messenger.”

  Roderigo sank down onto the floor. Thomas took out a poniard and, without thinking, began to scrape the mortar between the stones.

  “Marry, Thomas, put that away,” said Jorge. “You’ll loosen the blocks.”

  “Your pardon, Father.” Thomas returned the dagger to his belt. “I meant no harm.”

  Dear God, such a horrendous predicament, Roderigo thought. Raphael gone. The mission in jeopardy. And my dear Becca. He said, “How can I marry my daughter to a buggerer?”

  Dunstan asked if he could speak. Roderigo nodded wearily.

  “Uncle,” Dunstan said. “It’s best if Rebecca remains available until an appropriate suitor is found.”

  “The Baron of Herdford seemed interested in her,” Thomas remarked. “At least, he inquired about her quite extensively.”

  “Bah,” Dunstan answered, brushing him off. “He’s an old bag of wind whose sword lost his thrust many summers ago.”

  “Tis not only rutting that makes a good husband,” Benjamin argued. “He’s rich.”

  “Tut, Benjamin,” Dunstan replied. “Have pity on your sister. The Baron of Herdford!”

  “The old lord will die soon,” Benjamin persisted. “As a wealthy widow with title, Rebecca could have her pick of suitors.”

  “She has her pick anyway,” Dunstan said. “Beautiful, young—”

  “Mulish,” Ben said.

  “Say rather she’s…an independent thinker,” Dunstan said, smiling.

  Roderigo suddenly turned on him. “With quite a bit of help from you, Dunstan. You’ve filled her brain with unfortunate ideas, nephew. Twas not helpful to her or me.”

  “Uncle,” said Dunstan, “if knowledge be port, Rebecca be a drunkard. The girl soaks it up. Better she be tutored by a kinsman than a stranger who will lure her away from family—”

  “Enough of my family matters,” Roderigo suddenly announced. “It’s my problem and I’ll do what’s best for my daughter…. We must concentrate on the problem at hand. There are lives to be saved.”

  “Here, here,” said Aben Ayesh. “People are dying! We must save them. As Raphael’s brother, Miguel still is the logical choice.”

  “Miguel? Bah!” Dunstan exclaimed. “Better to send Rebecca.”

  “Miguel has always been trustworthy,” answered Jorge. “I’m sure he’d be willing to continue his brother’s missions. To suggest him a coward, Dunstan, because of his…his peculiar passions, is ill-advised.”

  “Very well,” Dunstan said. “If you think him able—”

  “He is able,” Jorge said. “Do you agree, Solomon?”

  “We are in complete accord,” said Aben Ayesh. “It is settled. We shall talk to Hector and Miguel immediately.”

  “At least Miguel will have something in which to prove his manhood,” Dunstan snickered.

  Thomas said, “Need I remind you that Miguel is tall and strong. He excels at hawking. He relishes the thrill of the hunt!”

  “Aye,” Dunstan laughed. “As long as the hunt is for boys.”

  “Men,” Tho
mas corrected.

  “There’s a difference?” Dunstan said.

  “A boy is your five-year-old son, brother,” Thomas said. “Miguel fancies men. Always has. Tis hard to fathom why God fashioned him as such. One would think him weak and timid. Yet Miguel’s grip is as strong as the peregrine’s.”

  “Miguel is weak in the art of swordplay,” Dunstan said.

  “So are you,” Thomas stated.

  “Quiet,” Jorge said to his sons. “Both of you are like jackals at each other’s throats.”

  Roderigo said, “Dunstan raised a good point. Miguel is weak in his swordsmanship. Considerably weaker than had been Raphael, God rest his soul. And many were better than he had been.”

  Jorge agreed. He said, “Thomas, it’s up to you to teach him your expertise.”

  “I’ll set up regular times to spar with him,” Thomas said.

  “Instruct the woman to act the man,” Dunstan said with a smile.

  “Does jealousy talk?” Thomas asked his brother.

  “I? Jealous of Miguel? Absurd!”

  “You have yet to forgive him for the pouncing he bestowed upon you at our last wrestling bout.”

  “Wrestling for sport is one thing, Thomas,” Dunstan retorted hotly. “Braving peril is quite another and is reserved for only true men.”

  Jorge wagged an angry finger at Dunstan. “Keep your thoughts to yourself, my elder son. Sport with Miguel as well. He needs much practice if he is to be prepared for the ordeals that await him.”

  “As you wish, Father.”

  Jorge faced Aben Ayesh. “How much time do we have to teach Miguel?”

  “Never enough,” Aben Ayesh said. “A merchant galleon is due here in twenty days, docked at Portsmouth for only a week.”

  Not much time at all, Roderigo thought. So much to be done. Twenty days to teach Miguel to ride the treacherous road to the port, how to defend himself against the ruthless highwaymen, how to sneak aboard the ship, find the stowaways, and present them with the forged papers that would give them freedom at last.