The Quality of Mercy (58 page)

“Whose life?” Rebecca asked. He seemed to be talking as much to himself as to her. “Willy, what dost thou mean?”

Shakespeare was silent. Rebecca saw the muscles of his jaw tighten. His hands were clenched into fists.

She asked, “Willy, what happened to thee this past summer? Who has made thee taste such bitter herbs?”

Shakespeare said nothing.

“Tell me!” she begged. “Is it Mackering?”

Shakespeare suddenly turned around and kissed her lips. “Dress quickly,” he said. “I hear thy mother bidding thee a good morrow.”

“Thou dismisseth me as if I were some scullery maid!” Rebecca said.

Shakespeare closed his eyes and brought her hand to his lips. “I love thee,” he said.

Rebecca sighed. “I love thee too.” She nuzzled his neck with her nose and kissed him lightly, gently prodding his sides with her fingertips. Shakespeare laughed.

“I’m easily tickled,” he said. “Stop that.”

Rebecca continued. Shakespeare pushed her down onto her back and pinned her arms at her side.

“Make thy move, wench,” he said.

Rebecca knitted her brow a moment. “Thou hast forced me to take drastic measures, Shakespeare.”

“Aye?”

“Aye.”

“What?” he asked.

“I’ll have to employ my feet!”

She swung her legs upward and tried to knee him in the belly, but he avoided her blow. Straddling her body, he pinioned her legs against the mattress with his own.

Rebecca squirmed in his grasp, trying to free her hands. “Let me go,” she said.

Shakespeare said, “First, make thy requests with lordly respect.”

“Let me go!” Rebecca said.

Surprised by the harshness in her voice, Shakespeare released her. Rebecca wriggled out from under him, sat up and rubbed her wrists.

“Did I hurt thee?” he asked, concerned.

Rebecca shook her head. “No. I greatly mislike being restrained.”

“I see that,” Shakespeare answered. “My apologies. I was toying with thee. I meant no harm.”

There was injury in his voice. Rebecca held his hand and answered, “I know. It’s just that…” She waved him off.

“Tell me,” Shakespeare said.

“I hate being weak,” Rebecca said. “I loathe being at the mercy of those stronger than I, depending on their good graces for my freedom.” She looked at Shakespeare. “I’ve spoiled the playfulness of thy mood.
My
apologies.”

Shakespeare turned away and said, “I left my clothes in the spare bedchamber — where I was to have slept last night.”

“I’ll get them,” Rebecca said. She paused, then said, “I don’t know the dreadful deed that Mackering had imposed unto thee, but I am sorry thou suffered at his hands, Will.”

“I thank thee for thy sympathy,” Shakespeare said.

Rebecca opened her arms and they held each other in a soothing embrace. She asked, “Did Mackering kill Harry?”

Rebecca felt instant tension in her lover’s body. Shakespeare remained motionless for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so. But the uprightman had much to do with my mentor’s death. And so I shall have much to do with his.”

Had Essex the power, he would have strangled the bitch. Her Royal Highness — a vicious old harpy with sour breath. She sat upon her throne as snug and smug as a roosting hen. The room was small, cold air leaking through the shutters. Wind dusted his forehead, rushes blew about his boots. But Essex was hot. Standing before the Queen, he could feel pools of perspiration under his doublet, the starch of his collar wet and sticky. He felt as taut as a bowstring yet he dared not take his eyes off Elizabeth. That would enrage her further.

He sneaked a sidelong glance at Robert Cecil. The fawning woodcock — kneeling by the throne as still as a turd, the hump of his back almost level with the top of his head. He was as deformed in mind as he was in body. A malevolent gnome he was, the puny crookback, cast from his father’s mold — stupid, slow, plodding, a damn Puritan. And that ever-so-smug smile plastered upon his lips. How Essex wished he could smash Cecil’s face to bloody pulp. Nay, fists were for commoners. A rapier up the hole of his arse! And another down his throat! Skewered like a pig in an open pit. If the bitch would stop her railing, if she’d just leave the two of them alone—

“Devereaux, I’m talking to you!” Elizabeth screamed.

“Twould take a deaf man not to hear you, madam,” Essex said.

Elizabeth bolted from her throne and yelled, “Then I must have my loyal and trusted physician, Dr. Lopez, examine your ears, as you seem not to attend to the words I speak! And kneel before your Queen lest I reprimand you for showing disrespect to your God-given monarch!”

Essex felt himself go even hotter. Lowering the shin of his left leg behind him, he extended his right leg in front of him, bent at the knee, foot flat on the floor. He cringed at the thought of his staff waiting motionless by the door, watching his debasement. How could she do this to him,
her favorite,
in front of his servants!

Cecil stifled a smile and regarded the Queen’s pet. Essex was simmering, his cheeks as red as his hair. The Earl’s dark eyes oozed with ire, his long but womanish beard dotted with spittle. His round nose was pink and wet, the pores open, the nostrils flaring. The starch of his collar was now running down his back. All in all, the young lord’s appearance was anything but noble.

The more the Queen ranted, the easier Cecil breathed. They were two of a kind, Essex and the Queen — sanguinous cousins — red-hot hair and red-hot temperament. Yet this time the Queen was on
his
side, even though it was for the wrong reason. Cecil couldn’t understand Her Grace’s loyalty to this lowly Jew of a doctor, but anything he could use to give himself and Father the upper hand over Essex was well worth pursuing. So, allies with the Jew he and Father would be. Allies until Lopez’s political currency had been devalued to nothing.

Elizabeth sat back down. She said, “Where is he now?”

“Who?” Essex asked.

“Lopez, you dolt!”

“He’s still with my father at Burghley House, madam,” said Cecil.

Elizabeth smiled at Essex. “I mention my doctor’s name and you flinch, Devereaux. Why is that?”

A witch, thought Essex, just like her mother. She must have eyes in the back of her wig. Aye, the name Lopez enraged him. The man was a mite, yet for some ungodly reason the doggish Jew found favor with Her Grace. The beaked-nosed mutt and the steel-cunted bitch — what a duo they made. Arf, arf. And de Andrada! How he wished he could find
that
worm and crush him!

Dr. Lopez’s house is full of treasonous evidence,
de Andrada had assured him. Yet when they searched—

“Unplug your ears, Devereaux!” screamed Elizabeth. “Your mistress speaks!”

Essex could no longer hold his tongue. “Madam, you rebuke me in front of my loyal staff, in front of those that hold me in esteem—”

“So much the pity for them that they have such poor judgment!” Elizabeth smoothed the stomacher of her gown. “You, Lord Essex, are a rash and temerarious youth! How dare you insult the honor of my trusted physician, Dr. Lopez, thereby insulting my honor as well!”

Essex bit his lip, then said, “I was informed by trustworthy servants that madam’s physician was conducting matters of malice—”

“Madam,” Cecil said. “If I may be so bold to interrupt Lord Essex—”

Elizabeth said, “Spare the wind, Cecil, and make your point!”

“We have conducted an extensive search of Dr. Lopez’s manor in Holborn. No matters of malice nor any writing of intelligence have been found in his home—”

Essex said, “The Jewish doctor—”

“Lopez was baptized, Essex,” the Queen interrupted him. “He attends state’s services on the sabbath. He is a good English Protestant.”

A false Protestant, Essex thought. But something in the Queen’s voice told him not to press the issue. He said, “Lopez lets a cell in the city — at Mountjoy’s Inn, where he is said to conduct business of a secretive nature.”

“Lord Burghley’s men searched his cell at Mountjoy’s as well,” Cecil said. “Aye, his business was most personal, madam. We found trinkets and toys belonging to various young ladies — none of whom were his wife. If Dr. Lopez be guilty of sedition because of this deceit, then almost all the noblemen of court should be arrested for treason!”

“Enough of that, Cecil,” Elizabeth said. “You need not cast aspersions upon the faithful and true lords to prove your point.”

“My apologies, madam—”

“Yes, yes,” the Queen said, brushing Cecil off. “What say you to that, Devereaux? Shall we hang and quarter my faithful servant because his codpiece isn’t exclusively reserved for his wife? I’ve been told that
your
codpiece is like your arguments. Both suffer from loose points.”

Essex boiled over with anger. “I had the man arrested not because of his diverse mistresses, but because he posed harm to Your Grace!”

“And what harm is that, Essex?” Elizabeth said. “Your men made their own search of the man’s house. No secret papers were found upon the premises.”

“He deals with the King of Spain, madam!” Essex bellowed. “Philip, King of Castile, your sworn enemy!”

“Bah,” Elizabeth scoffed. “His Majesty is old, with brains as runny as his bowel movements — that’s not to infer that the Papist is harmless. Indeed not! But methinks the green monster of jealousy shines deeply in your eyes, Devereaux. How many times have you come to me hoping to win favor in my heart by relating to me rumors concerning the Papist monarch?”

The Queen laughed out loud.

“Haven’t you looked like an ass, dear lord, when I reported to you that Lopez had told me the selfsame rumors two days earlier. Your sources are slower of pace and dimmer of wit than those of my doctor.”

Essex clenched his fists. “I still proclaim the man a spy!”

“No one is interested in your proclamations. Least of all Your Grace,” said Elizabeth. “You mislike Lopez because he pleases me. Yes, he’s a drooling dog to be sure, but amusing. And the man has useful relatives throughout the world, Devereaux. That pleases me greatly.”

Essex said, “Madam, if you’ll permit me to explain—”

“Your explanations thus far have done anything but explain,” said the Queen. “Open your ears and listen. You might even learn a trick or two.” Elizabeth walked across the hall and stood in front of the hearth.

“It’s frosty in here,” said Elizabeth. “Cecil, I grant you the honor of warming Your Grace by stoking the fire.”

“By your will, madam,” Cecil said, picking up a poker.

Essex started to rise. Elizabeth shouted out, “Stay where you are. Have I given you permission to stand?”

Essex turned scarlet.

Elizabeth said, “You loathe Dr. Lopez, Robert, because he advocates peace with Spain and stability for the English treasury. You, however, crave glory in a Spanish war and money from my purse strings. Well, young lord, you’ll have neither until you learn the meaning of the word temperance!”

The Queen turned to Cecil and said, “Nothing has been proven against my servant, Dr. Lopez. He is to be released immediately!”

“As you desire, madam.”

“Tis what
justice
desires,” Elizabeth said. “You do know the meaning of that word, do you not, Lord Essex?”

Essex could no longer contain his fury. He stood and turned his back to the Queen.

“I haven’t dismissed you, Devereaux.”

“Aye, you haven’t,” Essex said. “I’ve dismissed myself.” He stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind him. His servants stood at the doorway, trembling with fear. Elizabeth shooed them away and they quickly exited the hall.

Elizabeth sighed. “What am I going to do with him, Cecil? The young lord needs a weathervane, as he possesses much misdirected wind. I fear that someday he’ll find his neck on the block.”

Only savvy prevented Cecil from smiling.

Rebecca stirred the mush, then fed a spoonful to Miguel. He immediately spit it out and demanded meat.

“Meat isn’t good for your stomach,” Rebecca explained.

Miguel said, “How can you feed me such vile victuals? Get me something edible. If not meat, fowl or fish.”

“Miguel,” Rebecca said, “this is a special preparation that will promote healing—”

“It’s slop!” Miguel answered angrily. “You’re to be my wife. Act dutiful and get me real food!”

Rebecca shrugged off his harsh tongue. Five days ago they had been equals — fighting side by side. Now, suddenly, he’d become her
master,
she his nursemaid. He’d changed since the beginning of the mission, having become prone to fits of temper even before their harrowing experience. He had turned as moody as his brother. Ye gods, was her beloved friend, her
confidant,
turning into a prig like Dunstan? Was this her lot in life? To be the wife of a prig, and one who fancied men at that?

Miguel noticed Rebecca’s tired expression and softened his tone. “This muck is unpalatable, Becca,” he said. “Taste it.”

“I have,” she said.

“Well, I can’t stomach it,” he said crossly.

“Very well. I’ll bring you something else.”

Rebecca stood, but Miguel took her hand and held her back. Kissing it softly, he said, “I’m not hungry anyway.”

“You must eat, Miguel,” Rebecca said. “Your father hopes that you’ll be well enough to make a brief appearance at the festivities tonight.”

“Come down to the hall, carried — or in a wheeled chair — like an invalid?” Miguel said incredulously.

“The chair is only temporary,” Rebecca said. “You’ll be able to walk soon.”

Miguel knocked the bowl out of Rebecca’s hand. “I’d rather die than present myself a cripple! Tell my father that I’m sore with pain and temper and I’ll have nothing to do with any banquet. Though God knows the extent of my gratitude concerning your father’s freedom.”

“By your wishes,” Rebecca said.

They sat in silence.

Miguel squirmed, then announced, “Becca, I am born with a curse. The Almighty knows I’ve tried, but I cannot change. Though my head tells me to love women, my body keeps pulling me to men. That’s not to imply I cannot function as a man. I’ve had diverse women—”