The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman

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      “And you never volunteered, you plant. The girl has brains under her coif. You must have been away from home the night she was conceived.” The Queen prodded Rebecca in the ribs with her toes. “When you are done with my feet, you may proceed with my hands.”

      “Thank you, Your Grace.”

      Elizabeth picked up the jug, poked through the wax seal with her finger, and sniffed the contents. “What’s in here?” she asked suspiciously.

      “Four spoonfuls of the juice of red nettles, eight of ale, thirty grains of nicra picra, and a half pint of aqua vitae.”

      She handed the container to Rebecca. “Taste it for me, my dear.”

      “It would be my honor, Your Grace.”

      Rebecca took a healthy swallow and passed it back to the Queen, who looked at Roderigo with a sly smile.

      “It has been rumored that you have a special penchant for ratsbane and Indian acacia, Ruy.”

      Roderigo turned white and coughed.

      “Madam, I’ve—”

      “Oh, stow your mouth!” Elizabeth laughed. She took a gulp of the medicine. “No matter,” she said. “I trust you. For your daughter’s welfare if not for mine. Tell me, what do your spies in Iberia say about His Majesty, King of Spain?”

      “His treasury lessens daily, his navy is in ruins, the sailors poorly paid and mutinous. He has no means for war. He knows when he has been bested.”

      “Go on, go on,” Elizabeth commanded.

      “His Majesty is much bothered by the French Protestant Henry of Navarre and continues to stare wistfully to the north. So does the Duke of Parma.”

      “Tell me something I know not.”

      Roderigo hoped his voice was steady. He said, “They comprise a stronger team than either one individually.”

      “Do you think it wise for England to continue to aid France and the two-faced Navarre?” The Queen smiled wickedly. “Speak, man! Give me your opinion.”

      “It is costly,” Roderigo said cautiously.

      “Your ancestry shows itself,” Elizabeth said, raising her eyes. “But tis true. Our involvement on the Continent is slowly bankrupting the treasury. Not that Essex is concerned. He spends as if I were magical rains always filling the wells he calls his pockets.” She shook her head in disgust.

      Roderigo said nothing. The Queen knew of his rivalry with Essex, and her comments were meant to incite a reaction from him. She was a master of playing people against each other, thus neutralizing all forces against her. When it was clear that Roderigo refused to enter a game he could not win, the Queen said,

      “What does the King of Spain conspire?”

      Dark circles of sweat stained Lopez’s armpits. Praise God Rebecca had remembered to add the sweating salts to the sleeves. He would be wet, but at least his body odor would offend no one.

      “It is rumored that though His Majesty wars with the French king, they meet covertly—”

      “The bastards!” the Queen screamed. “When?”

      “I’ve heard the gossip a few days ago.”

      “And why was I not informed?”

      “I had not been summoned to court, madam.”

      Elizabeth winced. “Damn Essex,” she muttered.

      This time Roderigo smiled. It had been just as he thought. Essex had been keeping him away. And in his absence, the Queen had lost a valuable piece of gossip.

      “Damn him!” she repeated. “What are we to do about this?”

      She was trying to trap him again.

      “Your Grace,” Lopez began, “England is the Jeweled Maiden of the Sea, the mightiest and swiftest power in centuries. All because on the throne sits a just and fair monarch who governs by divine inheritance—”

      “Oh bother! You speak a lot and say little … But you have worthy spies.” She thought a moment, then said, “I hear you have a fine falconer.”

      “I do, madam,” Roderigo answered.

      “I have a sick bird in my mew, a fine female peregrine. See if your falconer can restore her to health. If he can, you may have your pick of her eggs.”

      “Twould be my honor, Your Grace.”

      “Of course it would be your honor.” She waved him away. “Go and leave me with my medicines.”

      “As you wish, madam,” Roderigo said. “Shall I come by tomorrow and see how Your Grace is faring?”

      “Yes, yes,” the Queen answered. “Away.”

      “My most humble gratitude for allowing me the pleasure of serving Your Most Holy—”

      “Good, good, enough blather,” the Queen interrupted. “Now go.”

      “Come, Rebecca.”

      “The girl stays.”

      “Madam, I—”

      “The girl stays,” repeated the Queen. “Did you not hear me the first time, Dr. Lopez?”

      “Absolutely, madam. It’s just that such an honor you have bestowed upon her … I am speechless.”

      “Would it were so.” The Queen pointed to the door. “Be gone!”

      Roderigo bowed and tried to meet Rebecca’s eyes. But hers were fixed on the brown-spotted flesh topping the Queen’s hands. He had no choice but to leave. As he stepped out into the Privy Chambers, his body was shaking uncontrollably.

      Rebecca proceeded from rubbing hands to rubbing the neck and face. Though Her Majesty’s body had been prey to the ravages of time, her face still retained remarkable smoothness of skin, wrinkle-free except for small lines around the eyes and lips. Her cheeks were dry and rosy, a deeper blush than usual due to fever. She moaned softly under Rebecca’s touch.

      “What say you of my condition?”

      “Excuse a lowly girl’s ignorance, Your Grace, but I am not qualified to answer your question lest I err in my appraisal and cause ill to come to you. I’d rather die myself.”

      “Answer it anyway,” Elizabeth commanded.

      “If Your Grace insists, I’d say that madam is heavy with choler. Your skin is hot and dry. The phlegm that Your Grace spits is a sign of recovery being moist and cool. Madam must drink. Pints and pints of clear cistern water mixed with aqua vitae. It will bring on more phlegm and keep the humors in balance.”

      “Your hands СКАЧАТЬ