The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman

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      “And you’ve almost completed your tasks?”

      Rebecca’s face lit up with understanding.

      “Marry, you mean the forged papers—”

      “Quiet,” Roderigo interrupted. “Keep your voice low.”

      Rebecca whispered, “I’ve finished one set and am busy penning another.”

      Roderigo smiled and stroked her cheek. “Well, then. And your music?”

      Rebecca replied that Grandmama said she wasn’t allowed to play music until the thirty days of her second period of mourning were over. She told her father she only had six days left, trying to sound casual, but the relief in her voice was too evident. Her father had noticed it and arched his eyebrows in disapproval.

      She added, “Aye, Father, a month of mourning officially for Raphael, but for years he will live in the heart.”

      Rebecca sensed that she had said the wrong thing. Her father tensed.

      “Raphael was a wonderful man,” he said.

      “Aye.”

      “He deserves a true mourning, not simply an official one.”

      “I understand,” Rebecca answered.

      “I think not.” Roderigo pushed her away. “Leave now.”

      “Father, I’ve always been a dutiful daughter to you,” Rebecca said. “I would have been a dutiful wife to Raphael. But I was not passionately in love with him.”

      “You would have learned to love him.”

      “I’m not denying that,” Rebecca said. “Some note in my voice has offended you. I pray you to pardon me.”

      “I don’t want apologies, Becca. I simply want you to wed for your own sake. Find a suitable man that pleases you. Because if no man is to your liking, you’ll simply have to marry one you dislike.”

      “Father—”

      “No more said about it!”

      Roderigo curled the tip of his beard with his finger, cleared his throat, then said, “I’ve received word that Uncle Solomon has safely arrived in Turkey.”

      “Thanks be to God,” Rebecca answered quietly.

      He sighed and tried again. “Did I tell you about the letter that your brother sent me?”

      “Two times. Ben is well and is enjoying Venice. He eats a great deal—less meat, more bread.”

      “Did I tell you about their eating geegaw—a fork they call it. They spear their food—”

      “Aye, you told me.”

      “Ben said they eat using these toys for fingers because their hands aren’t clean.” Roderigo laughed.

      Rebecca was not amused. “Shall I go now?”

      “No. Your beauty warms my bones,” said Roderigo. “Stay. And do not sulk.”

      “As you wish.”

      “Stubborn girl,” Roderigo muttered.

      Before Rebecca could reply, Martino walked in the room, panting with excitement. A gentleman wearing royal livery had arrived with a message to deliver to Dr. Lopez. Rebecca stood up and looked at her father. His face held an expression of concern mixed with excitement. At last. Some word from the Queen. It was, of course, a double-edged sword. Father had been summoned, but for what purpose? Rebecca’s heart started hammering, her head suddenly felt light. Please God, let all be well.

      Roderigo commanded Martino, “Let him in. But give me some minutes to make myself acceptable.” To Rebecca he said, “Dress me quickly.”

      Immediately she began to truss his points, lacing firmly the ribbons of his gown.

      “Where are your shoes?” she asked.

      “My boots are—”

      “Nay, Father, not your boots. Your velvet shoes—the ones topped with roses.”

      “Need I my velvet shoes?”

      “Father!”

      “They are in my bedchamber.”

      “I will retrieve them along with your garters. And a new ruff as well. The one you wear sags pathetically under the weight of your beard.”

      She was off. He was elated. The Queen had sent for him. Was Essex out of favor? Did she desire to use his secret contact in Spain? Did she need news from Solomon Aben Ayesh’s well-connected band of Levantine spies? Did she simply desire his counsel?

      Suddenly he stopped and felt a cold shiver run through his body.

      Could the Queen be actually ill?

      Perish the thought! If her life ended, so would go all his power.

      He picked up his bag and checked its contents. A few elixirs, a few powders. He was lacking the necessary medicines—the purges, leeches, potions, poultices. Thank God Rebecca and Sarah were so meticulous in stocking the stillroom.

      Rebecca was back with a new ruff and his shoes. Quickly she placed multiple layers of lace and wire around his neck. Her father seemed calm, he wasn’t trembling or breathing hard, but his color seemed unusually flushed. Her own fingers were stiff. God give him strength, give her strength. Let this be a portent of good things to come.

      “My medicine bag is nearly empty,” Roderigo told her.

      “Tell me what you need.”

      Roderigo listed the medicines: a jug of leeches, trefoil, thistle, walnut shells, cheese mold, fungus on rye—women of that age are known to have bleeding of the privates.

      “Perhaps a sprig or two of parsley mixed with dragon water,” Rebecca suggested. “The condition of Her Grace’s teeth is quite poor.”

      “Aye, parsley with water, and dried mint as well. And my special purge.”

      “Done,” said Rebecca. “Shall I ask Martino to show in the messenger?”

      “Aye … wait.”

      Rebecca stopped.

      “Am I presentable?” Roderigo asked.

      “More than presentable, Father. Comely.”

      Roderigo smiled and blew her a kiss as she left.

      The messenger entered—a young man wearing the royal arms. He was just a boy, Roderigo thought, with hardly more than fuzz for a beard. Yet Roderigo quaked before him as if he were the Queen herself.

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