The Quality of Mercy (54 page)

Dunstan shouted, “You’ve been fucking my brother!” He slapped her again and shoved her into the wall. Rebecca slumped to the floor and moaned. Reina began to cry.

“And
fornicating
in front of the child, yet?” Dunstan screamed. He fell on top of Rebecca and began to choke her, felt himself squeezing the life out of her pretty little throat. Just deserts, the worthless slut! And to think he had ever
loved
her.

Rebecca was turning purple, clawing at his hands. Dunstan didn’t even feel the gouges she raked into his skin. Only a moment later did he realize Thomas’s arm was looped around his neck, forcing him to release her. Rebecca held her throat and rolled about the floor, sucking up air.

“Are you
moonstruck
!” Thomas cried. “Stop it!”

“Let me go!” Dunstan screamed, thrashing about in Thomas’s arms. He managed to pull out his dagger. “I’ll kill her! And you as well if you get in my way!”

“Stop fighting me, damn you!” Thomas yelled. “I bedded a whore up here! A
whore,
Dunstan, not Becca! Becca found me a whore! I
asked
her to find me one! She’s been doing nothing but worrying about your welfare! She would have gone back to the boat had I not stopped her!”

Dunstan stopped struggling and dropped his dagger. His head began to spin. Thomas loosened his grip.

“I
did not bed
her,” Thomas said. “She
did not bed
me. I had a
whore
! Understand?”

“Let go of me!” Dunstan ordered.

“Swear you’ll not lay—”

“Let me go,” Dunstan said wearily. “I’ve regained my wits.”

Thomas hesitated, then released Dunstan from his hold. He limped over to Rebecca. Her face was puffy, cuts had surfaced upon her brow and lips. Her nose was bloody. She was breathing easier now, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

“Do you need help?” Thomas asked.

“No.” Her voice was barely audible. “Pray, go comfort the child.”

Thomas wiped tears from Rebecca’s face with his fingertips, his eyes filled with pity and guilt. “Let me help you to your feet.”

Rebecca insisted, “Go to Reina.” She crawled over to the bags and began rummaging through them for her vials, pulling out several jars. She slipped on another chemise, then walked shakily back to Miguel and knelt beside him.

“I need more light, Dunstan,” she said.

Dunstan brought her the candle and regarded her face. The left eye was red and swollen. He felt his stomach buck with self-revulsion.

Rebecca wiped her bloodied hands on her chemise. She said, “I need water. I cannot work with sticky hands.”

“Aye,” Dunstan said.

After Rebecca washed her hands, she examined Miguel’s wound. It was closed shut and topped with a hard node of green pus. Laudable pus, the Gentiles called it, a sign of healing. But Grandmama had taught her that it was a river of death. To break the skin, to send the pus into the blood was as harmful as breathing evil vapors.

Radiating from the swelling beneath the skin were spider-webs of green lines. She dabbed Miguel’s brow, then held his face in her hands. His complexion was wan and pasty, his breath sour. His hands were as hard and cold as ice. She pried apart his chilled, dry lips and forced some poppy syrup into his mouth. Miguel sputtered and coughed out the first sip, but was able to swallow the second and third.

His body was heavy with bad humors. Rebecca knew she’d have to cut him open and remove the blade from his back. She ordered Dunstan to go down and fetch Shakespeare, as he would need help in holding Miguel down. She also told him to scrounge up knives from the inn’s kitchen.

“If the scullery maids and cooks be penurious, offer them a groat or two,” she said. “That should increase their generosity immensely.”

Dunstan nodded.

“Oh, and get an ice pick,” Rebecca added, “and a whetstone as well. And a needle and thread.”

Dunstan stared at her, his feet unable to move.

Rebecca said, “Go, go! Make haste! Every second counts!”

Dunstan still hesitated. He said, “Becca, I—”

“Stow you, Dunstan,” Rebecca said sharply. “Just do as I say. For
once
.”

Dunstan sighed and shut the door behind him. Rebecca closed her eyes and prayed to God for strength, fortitude to do what her father had done every day since he’d become a doctor, what she knew her grandam could do with her eyes closed. She was such a weak woman. Please God, the Creator of miracles, give her the will to do her duty. After she finished her personal entreaties, she began what Jews always do when death has its sucker under the wretched’s skin. She began to recite
tehilim
— the psalms of King David — by rote.

“God’s Sointes!” Shakespeare exclaimed when he saw her. Her face! It had been whole just a moment ago. “What happened? Troth, your eye—”

“I’m well,” Rebecca said flatly. “I stumbled and hit the floor in a rather ungainly manner. The eye is not beautiful but it’s functional. I see clearly.”

Shakespeare looked at her, then at Thomas — his face expressionless. Shakespeare stammered, “We should summon another surgery doctor. Rebecca cannot—”

Rebecca interrupted, assuring him it was not necessary. Though Shakespeare knew she was lying, he did not press her for the truth.

He embraced her tightly and whispered, “I love thee.”

“By my life, I love thee,” Rebecca said, hugging him back. “I’m scared, Willy. What if Miguel dies under my hand?”

“He won’t.” Shakespeare studied her face. It was bruised, as if someone had slapped her repeatedly. The skin around her throat held the imprints of fingertips. He looked at Thomas again. This time the younger knight avoided his gaze and lowered his head.

Shakespeare felt himself go hot, rigid with anger. He squeezed his hands into fists, then looked at Rebecca.

“Thou wert whole when I left thee with thy cousins. Only Thomas or Dunstan could have done this to thee, and I warrant the guilty one stands not in this room…. I’ll kill him.”

Rebecca knew he meant it. She said, “This is not the time.”

Shakespeare didn’t answer right away. He breathed slowly, trying to control his rage. Finally he said. “Retribution is a well-seasoned actor who knows his proper time and place. If peace be possible, peace thou shalt have — for now.” He kissed her forehead and held her hands. “Miguel shall
not
die, Rebecca. These fingers shall be as crocheting hooks, knotting up the unraveling caused by the bastard Spanish. I’ve witnessed thy magical needlepoint on Thomas, my love. Indeed, thou art a wizard — making that which was rent once again inseamed. Thou hast no need of hap, Becca, as thou possesses God-granted skill.”

Rebecca squeezed his hands and lay her head on his chest. His words, so soothing. How she loved him.

Dunstan came into the room, bearing an assortment of blades, towels, and a whetstone. He instantly noticed Shakespeare’s murderous eye and dropped the knives, a cleaver nicking the tip of his boot.

“Oaf,” Shakespeare said. “Pick them up.”

Dunstan sneaked a furtive glance at Rebecca, at Thomas, who sat cuddling Reina on the floor. All were averting their eyes. Dunstan swallowed, straightened his spine and said to Shakespeare, “Remember thy place—”

Shakespeare sprang. He clamped his arm around Dunstan’s neck and held a dagger at his throat.

“You live at the insistence of your cousin. Do you understand what I am saying?” Shakespeare whispered.

Dunstan said to Thomas, “Wilt thou allow this stranger a hand upon thy brother?”

Thomas turned away. Shakespeare compressed his arm around Dunstan’s throat, who began to cough.

“Let him go, Shakespeare,” Thomas finally said.

Shakespeare eased the pressure and said, “If ever a wee scratch finds its way upon your cousin, you’re a dead man.”

“To the Devil!” Dunstan answered.

Shakespeare said, “I’ve not explained myself sufficiently to thee.”

Dunstan said nothing.

“Answer me!” Shakespeare shouted.

“I have ears, man!” Dunstan said. “I hear you speak. Let me go.”

Shakespeare released him with a shove. Dunstan stumbled to the floor. He rose slowly, then bent over Thomas and spat in his face.

Thomas wiped the glob of phlegm from his cheek and said, “Had Rebecca been my wife, I would have killed you for what you’d done. Shakespeare showed commendable restraint.”

“You’ll not have a penny of inheritance!” Dunstan shouted.

“I shit on your money!” Thomas shouted back.

Rebecca said, “Spare the strife, for Miguel’s sake. We’ve no time to lose on useless bickering. Dunstan, pick up the knives and wash them clean.”

There was an awkward silence, then Reina began to cry. Thomas rocked her in his arms, tried to coo the child back to sleep but the more he talked, the more distraught the little girl became.

Shakespeare said, “Like lepers, we fall apart piece by piece.”

“Sing to her in her Spanish,” Dunstan suggested.

Thomas crooned an old Spanish lullaby, one that his mother had sung to him. His voice was melodious and deep and instantly quieted the little girl. Rebecca sighed and began picking up the knives herself. It took her about thirty minutes to set up for the basics — boil the water by placing a kettle in the hearth, then washing the knives. She asked Thomas to vacate the bed and lay clean sheets upon it. Holding the little girl in his arms, Thomas limped over to the fireplace, refusing help from his brother or Shakespeare. Warm and swathed in soft blankets, he rocked the little girl to sleep. Hopefully, she’d stay deep in slumber and Miguel’s screams would not wake and scare her.

After the knives had been rinsed with boiling water, Rebecca sorted through the blades. A fish-gutting knife looked sharp enough for the job. And the tongs would make a good clamp. Two paring knives looked passable. She held them against the light in the fireplace and studied the blades, sorely missing her father’s surgery knives with their fine-honed edges and their solid ivory handles.

She said, “I’ll have to sharpen these. Where’s the whetstone, Dunstan?”

“Here.” Dunstan leaned over her shoulder, whispered, “I beg your forgiveness.”

Rebecca said, “On my grave, never! May your death be slow and painful, your soul be sent to purgatory. May God not grant you redemption and may your eternity be spent in Hell.”

Dunstan said, “Tis your spleen and not your heart that talks.”

Though inwardly livid, Rebecca replied calmly, “I should have bedded your brother. At least he was able to rise when the occasion presented itself. But we shall not speak of such items, eh?” She paused, then stated, “These marks upon my brow, Dunstan, were made by the frustrated soldier who had arrived at many a battlesite without a pike.”

Dunstan stiffened with embarrassment and anger but controlled himself.

Rebecca shrugged. She picked up a knife and meticulously began to sharpen it, a stroke against the whetstone, a check of the angulation against the light. When she had finished with one blade, she went on to the next one. When all the knives were honed to her satisfaction, she spread them out at the foot of the bed along with the towels and strips of cloth, two large bowls of fresh water, and the needle and catgut thread. She washed her hands in one of the bowls, muttered last minute prayers, then said out loud,

“Dunstan, you hold Miguel’s feet. You’ll also be in charge of passing me my tools.” Rebecca turned to Shakespeare. “You hold his arms and my light.” She handed him the candlestick. “Be sure to keep the flame over the wound, else I’ll see not where I’m cutting. Best to kneel at the head of the bed. Keep Miguel’s head cradled between your knees and thighs. Secure his wrists with one hand, the candlestick with the other.”

Shakespeare did as she instructed. Rebecca repositioned Shakespeare’s hand in the air.

“Hold the light here. Like this. Don’t move. Don’t drip tallow on him. Don’t get in the way of my field of vision. And keep Miguel firmly anchored no matter how strenuous his movements be. One slip and he’ll not walk again.”

Shakespeare and Dunstan nodded.

Rebecca said, “God give me strength and judgment.”

Picking up a clean towel, she covered the green nodule of pus, then lifted a knife and placed the blade against Miguel’s skin. She’d shaped the blade’s edge razor thin. A fine job, thanks be to God. A well-honed instrument cuts cleanly and quickly. Rebecca positioned herself comfortably and incised the skin. Miguel came alive, jerking in the men’s grips, howling in pain.

“Hold him, damn it,” Rebecca cursed, deepening the cut.

Miguel screamed, panted.

“I need a towel,” Rebecca said to Dunstan.

“Which one?” Dunstan asked.

“Any of them, you woodcock, just give me one. The cut has filled with blood and I can’t see beyond my initial incision!”

Dunstan offered her a small one, and Rebecca snatched it from his hands. She dabbed the wound, deepened and widened the cut. Miguel sobbed.

“Keep breathing,” Rebecca said. “Shakespeare, wipe his brow.”

Rebecca asked for a bigger knife, enlarged the site. Miguel was exhaling rapidly, out of control.

“Breathe with him, Shakespeare,” she ordered. “Exhale, inhale, exhale… slow it down, Willy. Inhale, exhale. Keep that rhythm. Inhale, exhale… Clutch the bedsheets, Miguel. Curse, my love! Just keep breathing. Inhale, exhale.”

Rebecca dried the blood, began to slice into the fascia and underlying muscle. She told herself:
at all cost, avoid lancing the green boil
. She covered it with a rag and began to probe for the broken dagger blade.

More blood. Rebecca blotted it away.

“Inhale, Miguel,” Shakespeare ordered. “Exhale.”

Miguel continued screaming. Rebecca said, “Dunstan, cover his mouth with a rag. He’ll become faint if you don’t
and
someone will hear us. Breathe slower, Miguel,” Rebecca said. “Slow it down. Clutch the bedsheets, my love. Thou will be well, I swear it on my grave. Inhale, exhale… The light, Shakespeare.” She jerked his hand and moved the candlestick directly over the open skin. “Keep it there! Dunstan, another rag!”