The Quality of Mercy (74 page)

“And we are to believe this?”

Lopez was silent.

“And we are to believe this?” Coke repeated. He now addressed the commission. “I have a more likely explanation — one suggested by Emmanuel de Andrada’s letter to Lord Essex. The King of Spain gave you the ring as an initial payment for poisoning your mistress! The word pearls does not refer to pearls. Nor does it refer to Jews…. Nay, not at all. It refers to the price of poisoning the Queen, does it not?”

“No!” Lopez protested.

“Musk and amber refers to the price of burning Her Majesty’s ships!”

“Never!”

“Yet you have stated that those words mean exactly that, Dr. Lopez,” Coke continued. “You have signed a confession that says as much!”

“Signed it as I lay stretched upon the rack!” Lopez retorted.

Essex could not contain himself. He said, “Ye vile Jew
confessed
it, yet now you belie yourself and say you did it only to save yourself from a racking. As the Lord is my sole witness, you know this to be untrue! Judgment of guilt shall pass against you to the applause of the world!”

Coke added, “You signed the confession, Dr. Lopez! And others will show it to be the truth! The ring was initial payment for the poisoning of your mistress and burning her ships —
guilty
of item two, intent to poison the Queen, guilty of item three, intent to burn her ships!”

“Untrue!” Lopez yelled.

But he could not be heard over the clapping of the commissioners’ hands.

Coke orated, “A clever wolf you are, Lopez. You knew how damaging it would be to have a ring from the King of Spain in your possession. So with devious intent you gave the ring to your mistress and hid its origins.”

“No,” Lopez insisted.

“Then why did you give it to the Queen?”

“The King of Spain wanted Her Majesty to have it.”

“Then how did it get back into your hands, Doctor?”

Lopez said, “It was given to my daughter by Her Majesty the Queen.”

Coke said, “Her Majesty gave it back to your daughter when she found out from whence it came, did she not?”

“I know not,” Lopez said. “Only that Her Majesty gave it to my daughter.”

“To give back to you.”

“No,” Roderigo said stubbornly. “It was given to my daughter as a gift.”

Coke said, “Maybe it was given to your daughter because she, too, was involved with this nefarious plot.”

Roderigo turned white. He cried, “NO!”

“Hadn’t she visited the Queen with you on more than one occasion?”

They were trying to implicate Rebecca. Dear God, dear God, help me
.

“Rebecca knew nothing—”

“Then admit it, Jew. The ring was given back to
you
because it came from the sworn enemy of England.”

“Yes, yes,” Roderigo said.
Anything, please God, so long as they don’t touch Rebecca
.

“You lied when you said it was given to your daughter, did you not? It was given back to you personally when the Queen found out its origins?”

Roderigo said yes, he had lied.

“He admits his perjury!” Coke said to the commission. “Only the threat of his daughter’s neck forces him to confess the truth. In sooth, the King of Spain gave it to Dr. Lopez as payment for a certain service that the doctor was to perform for him — that service being the poisoning of your mistress, the Queen, and the burning of her ships. Guilty, guilty, guilty!”

Roderigo lowered his head and stared at the floor.

“The man is a murderer,” Coke accused. “A notorious liar, a wolf dressed up as a man of medicine. And more, as we shall hear!”

He called in the witness against the accused.

Roderigo saw Esteban Ferreira de Gama enter the chambers. He was skeletal, his eyes feral, mad. They had treated him very badly. He must have gone through much torture before he agreed to play the witness against him. Roderigo’s heart held no anger against him. Instead it was sated with pity.

They sat him near Essex. The red-haired lord glared at him malevolently, but de Gama didn’t flinch. Only when the tortured man sneaked a sidelong glance at Roderigo did he begin to cry.

“Shall you tell your story?” Coke said to de Gama.

De Gama was sobbing.

“Shall I read you your confession?” Coke said. He didn’t bother to wait for an answer, read out loud the document signed by de Gama while under torture. Midway through the recital de Gama peeked at Roderigo. The doctor caught de Gama’s eyes and gave him a reassuring nod.

You did what you had to do, I understand
.

It made de Gama weep all the more.

When Coke had finished reading the indictment, he said to Roderigo, “Is this not the very story that you yourself admitted? The very confession you made and signed?”

“I suppose I did say something like that. Under torture.”

“I shall remind you of your exact words, Doctor,” Coke said with an air of triumph. He read aloud Roderigo’s confession, then handed it to the Lord Mayor to pass around to the other commissioners.

Coke said to Roderigo, “The commission has now heard the very confession in which you expressed your willingness to do heinous and treasonous service for the King of Spain.”

Lopez didn’t answer. There was nothing left to do but acquiesce. Though the case was built upon lies, it had been organized carefully. They had it all — de Andrada’s old letter stating that Lopez was willing to do service for the King of Spain, Lopez’s letter to Gomez D’Avila — the agent David, in the Low Countries — stating that Lopez was willing to do more business with the King of Spain. Obscure code words that could be interpreted in any manner the reader of the letter desired. A ring that was given to him by Philip. A witness to corroborate their lies, his own statement corroborating de Gama’s forced falsehoods.

Had Lopez been a member of the commission, he would have condemned himself.

Coke made a few cursory closing remarks — most of them insults to Roderigo’s character — a vile, contemptuous villain, a currish Jew not worthy to breathe the air of the English. The commissioners took the vote. One by one they pronounced him guilty. Unanimous.

Roderigo was asked if he wanted to say anything in his defense. What could he say that wouldn’t be met with disbelief, with jeers and derision? He accepted the verdict with stoic resignation. It was useless to do otherwise. He did not apologize. He did not beg for mercy. His only statement to the commission was that his family — his wife and children, his in-laws, his nephews — had known nothing of his deceit. Suffer not the innocent for the sins of the father, he stated.

Silence followed Roderigo’s pleas, then Coke stood and motioned the commissioners to stand as well. Held firmly by armed guards, Roderigo was led out of the chambers, led back to the Tower to await his execution.

Like a fiend, Rebecca paced.

Her father, guilty of treason, of trying to poison the Queen!

As if the verdict were a surprise. The trial had been a mockery.

She muttered a string of curses in Portuguese and kicked the door. Shakespeare looked up from his writing desk. He’d almost burned his tallow dry. Gods, he was tired. Through dim light he could make out the lines on his hourglass — four in the morning.

“Go to sleep, Becca,” he said. “Close thine eyes and dream.”

“About what?” she answered. “My father’s execution?”

Shakespeare regarded the piece of paper before him. He crumpled it and threw it down on the floor. His nerves were taut, his stomach churned. His mind was as thick as a bucket of mud.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to say. “I wish there was something I could do for thee. I feel useless.”

Rebecca picked up an apple from his trestle table and threw it against the wall. It was soft and fell to the floor, oozing mush. Ye Gods, Shakespeare thought. He’d just finished repairing all the damage
he’d
done during his fit of madness and now
she
was going to undo it all again.

“The bastards,” Rebecca snarled. “Foul toads, each and every one of them.”

“Shh,” Shakespeare said. “The walls are thin.”

She stopped pacing, weak with fatigue. She spoke haltingly. “We cannot leave our doorstep without someone calling us vile names… without someone spitting at our feet. They gather outside our house all day. They throw garbage over the walls… hurl rocks at the windows…. It’s horrible!”

Her legs could no longer support her weight. She sank onto Shakespeare’s pallet — newly sewn, stuffed with sweet straw. He stood up from his table, waded through piles of discarded papers crushed into balls and lay down beside her.

“Night is my true ally,” she whispered. “Darkness is a lover. I am hidden. I can breathe freely.”

Shakespeare asked, “What can I do for thee?”

“Nothing,” Rebecca said, turning her back to him. “Nothing at all. We live in constant fear, Will. Much like thee with thy murderous shadow, except that all of England is out to do us in. My brother is particularly vulnerable. I worry for his life.”

“Perhaps he should leave the country for a while.”

“And desert Father?” She rolled over and faced him. “He’d never do that. Do you not recall Benjamin’s loyalty the night thou called my father a whoremonger?”

“Too clearly,” Shakespeare said. The boy had been frothing with rage. “Cannot your mother leave at least? Surely the strain is too much for her.”

“She’ll not leave until Father is freed… or laid in his grave.”

Rebecca turned to him and stroked his cheek. “Oh my honeyed lover… if it were found out by certain people that thou hast befriended me — a Jewess, daughter of a traitor—”

Shakespeare placed his fingers on her lips. Rebecca kissed them softly, then nestled his hand between her breasts. She said,

“I must return to my house before daybreak. I must not be fragile in front of Mother. I must be strong.”

“Stay,” Shakespeare said, wrapping his arms around her. “Just a moment longer. Then I’ll walk thee home.”

Rebecca closed her eyes, finding comfort in the cradle of his embrace. So sweet, so kind. He was everything to her, seeing her through these days of madness. Her rock, her redeemer. He had even offered to run away with her once again, thereby tainting himself forever. Of course, she had refused. Never would she permanently inflict her woes upon him. Yet she knew that had he left her alone, she would surely have perished.

Rebecca said, “Thou hast yet to write anything acceptable?”

“Nothing that would move a queen to pardon thy father,” Shakespeare said. “I’ve failed thee—”

“Stop,” Rebecca said. “What about what thou hast tossed or the floor?”

“Words unworthy for a monarch.”

“We have no time for vanity or perfection, sweet William.
Anything
is better than nothing.”

“Regard what I’ve written, if it will make thee lighter of spirit,” Shakespeare said, sweeping his arms over the floor. “But I confess that my mind has been a barren womb.” He regarded her with profound sadness. “I’m sorry.”

Rebecca felt a lump of despair in her chest. She said, “If I can get through the crowds, and if I can squeeze through the guards, and if I can manage to capture the Queen’s attention, and if I am allowed to speak without immediate arrest… What…” She felt tears well up in her eyes. “What am I to say to Her Majesty, Willy?”

Shakespeare ran his hands over her face. He sighed. “Let’s see what I’ve thrown away. Perhaps I can play around with the words….” Rebecca was about to rise from the pallet. Shakespeare said, “No, no. Rest, my love, while thou hast peace and opportunity.”

“I love thee.”

“I love thee too.” Shakespeare stood, picked up some balls of paper and smoothed them out. He read to himself and muttered, “This is dreadful… this equally as much. This is a bald embarrassment—”

Rebecca interrupted, “I believe thee not. Hand them to me.”

Shakespeare continued uncrumpling the paper. With reluctance, he finally handed her a sample of his attempts. He glanced over her shoulder as she eyed his writing.

“This was the best of my feeble efforts,” he said nervously.

Rebecca read out loud,

The quality of mercy is not strain’d
As gentle rain, it falls from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
’Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
a throned prince superior than his crown…”

She stood up and stared at him.

“It’s still in foul form,” Shakespeare explained.

She read the rest of it and said, “How could thou cast this aside like… like
muck
?”

“Something’s lacking.”

“Nothing’s lacking. It’s
perfect
. So deeply it will move Her Majesty to mercy. It has brevity of thought, clarity of purpose, elegance—”

“It’s void of passion, Rebecca,” Shakespeare said.

“Thou hast rocks in thy head,” she said, throwing her arms around him. She crushed her lips to his. “I must memorize these words at once.”

“Not yet. Let me amend—”

“Nothing needs amending.”

“Small things, Rebecca,” he said. “The order of subject-verb, the choice of words… It’s hard to explain. The rhythm is unbalanced.”

“Thou could true up the scales of justice on thy words, so balanced they are.”

Shakespeare was still not satisfied. He said. “The lines are well constructed if one intends to recite them in a play — a lawyer orating on behalf of his client. But a daughter pleading for her father’s life—”

“Thou speakest nonsense!” Rebecca said. “My God, Will, I’ll never be able to intone such beautiful words. They shall fall out of my mouth like rotten teeth.”

“Nothing coming out of that mouth could ever be rotten. Let me work with the words, Becca—”

“Oh Willy, even if we could get something that pleases thee, how shall I speak before a queen? I’ve never addressed anyone, let alone a monarch.”

“Well,” Shakespeare said, “I’m not the player that Richard Burbage is, that Harry Whitman was, but I’ve had experience performing before a hostile audience.”