The Quality of Mercy (14 page)

“Come, daughter,” he said. “Tarry not. Place the medicines in my bag.”

She did as instructed, then looped an amulet around his neck. This one was arsenic paste sewed in dog skin, she explained.

“It will guard you against Black Death should the Queen be inflicted.” She pulled out a white crystal pebble from a jug. “Open up.”

Roderigo stared at the crystal. His mother-in-law had always insisted that the salts protected better than any charm the “wisemen” wore. Its taste was bitter, though not as bitter as the plague, Roderigo thought. He’d treated many patients steeped in Black Death, and not once had he or a member of his family been cursed with the disease. The hag might be a wretched old thing, but her potions were strong and effective. There were already mutterings that the false Protestants were not only secret Jews, but agents of Satan as well. How else could they circumvent the ubiquitous plague?

Marry, Roderigo thought, let them mutter. I shall live. He plucked the salt out of Rebecca’s hand and swallowed it.

“I shall take one also,” Rebecca announced.

“For what purpose?” Roderigo asked.

“Oh Father,” she blurted out. “Let me come to court.”

“Impossible,” Roderigo answered, not unkindly.

“The Queen was very fond of me,” Rebecca reminded him. “She brought me comfits and jellied quince. She loved my singing. My virginal playing made her weep.”

“Another time, Becca,” he said. “Once my favor has been firmly restored in her eyes.”

“If she is ill, I can assist you. I’ve come with you diverse times to visit the ill at St. Bartholomew’s.”

“This is the Queen.”

“How often did I stand by your side when Lord Leicester was ill?”

“He was not the Queen.”

“Her body is still human. If she is ill, I can help—”

“Go away, daughter. I have no time for your foolishness.”

Rebecca knew she should respect his wishes, but the last twenty-four days had been so confining. She envied her brother, off in Venice, her cousins gallivanting about. Only she and Uncle Hector had shown any respect for Raphael. True, she had been his betrothed, but it didn’t seem fair that only she should be cloistered. Rebecca argued,

“Had you not told me I should have been born a man so I could have practiced your chosen profession?”

“But you’re not a man.” Roderigo shook his head. “Aye, not a man at all.”

“I’m better equipped than Ben,” Rebecca said.

Roderigo glared at his daughter, angry at being confronted with the truth. Ben was an open wound in Roderigo’s heart. A wonderful boy, kind and good-hearted, but not as clever as Roderigo had wished. A curse to have a quick-witted daughter and a dull-witted son.

“Even if I would have permitted you to accompany me under ordinary circumstances, I would not allow it now,” he said sternly. “You’re in mourning, Rebecca.”

“I pray you, Father.” She sunk down on her knees and grabbed his hands, kissing his jeweled fingers. “I must leave here. I feel as if I’m being enveloped by the blackness I wear. I must escape or I’ll go mad. I beg of you.”

Roderigo withdrew his hands and said, “Your playacting may have its desired effects on young hearts, Becca, but my ears are deaf to your antics.”

Rebecca’s despair looked honest. Roderigo helped her to her feet and kissed her cheek. He said, “The Queen may have summoned me for reasons other than illness, little one. There is no place for women in politics.”

“Then what is the Queen? A bear? A goose? Aye, she must be a dog because oft you call her a bitch—”

Roderigo slapped her across the face. “Your tongue needs a knotting.”

The slap was a light one — a warning that she’d gone too far. But she remained undeterred. “The Queen’s a woman. Does
she
not involve herself in politics?”

“Bah,” Roderigo said. “You refuse to give up. Go away, silly Becca. You irritate me and I’m in no mood to be irritated.”

“Please, Father,” she implored. “If you have no need of me, I shall parade my wares around the galleries. Handsome and rich courtiers abound. Many are single, many are very well regarded. Who knows who may buy the merchandise? How am I to find a husband if you keep me locked up in these walls? I ask you so little, Father. Cosset me this one time.”

“You are the most pampered, spoiled, self-indulged young lady I have ever met!” Roderigo said harshly.

But his eyes were smiling. She knew she had won.

“Have your maids prepare you quickly,” he said. “If you’re not done by the time I depart, you shall be left behind.”

Rebecca’s heart took off in wild anticipation. To visit London-town. What a glorious place it was in springtime. Full of excitement and bustle. Stalls packed with the latest wares, ladies on the arms of their lords, bedecked in the most fashionable of dress. New sights and smells. New faces. She wanted to throw herself at her father’s feet and kiss his shoes in gratitude. He was taking her away from these walls, this
prison
. She should have vowed never to anger him again, should have showered him with obsequious words of praise. Instead all she said was thank you, her voice surprisingly cool and detached.

The Queen was in a foul mood, made even fouler the moment Dr. Lopez walked inside her bedchambers. Her Majesty’s personal sleeping closet, though modest in size, was opulent in style. The walls of the chamber were covered with silk cloth embroidered with the royal coat-of-arms. Velvet drapes sewn with silver and gold thread hung over two arched windows that provided the Queen with a view of the rose gardens. Her Majesty’s poster bed was carved from walnut, its mattress topped with down-filled counterpanes, and velvet and taffety pillows. Elizabeth sat on a throne, positioned to the left of her bed. Next to the royal chair stood a table upon which sat a porcelain water basin and pitcher, both leafed with gold.

Lopez gave the obeisance of reverence — the customary bow given to a monarch — and started to advance, but the Queen commanded him to stop.

“Who called him!” she demanded of the High Treasurer, Lord Burghley.

“But madam, you are ill—”

“You whale!” she screamed at Burghley. “You swine in black. You Puritan! Get him out of here!”

Burghley shrugged haplessly at Roderigo and their eyes met. Not a true friend, Roderigo knew. Impossible to keep one’s neck whole and trust anyone in power. But at the moment he was an ally, their connection the hatred of Essex.

“Go!” the Queen commanded Roderigo.

Her nightdress was soaked with perspiration. Yet her teeth chattered. She adjusted her wig — locks of flaming red hair knotted formally and entwined with diamonds and sapphires — then threw her sable-trimmed robe over her chest.

“You are flushed, madam,” Roderigo said. He dropped to his knees. “You are short of breath—”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion on my state of health,” Elizabeth snapped. “Did not I order you to leave? Do you disobey—” She stopped her outburst and stared at Rebecca. “You brought your
daughter
to my bedchamber?
Here? Now?
Are you
mad
?”

“Your Grace—” Roderigo stammered.

“
Why
did you bring her?” the Queen demanded.

“To aid—”

“So you need
assistance,
Dr. Lopez?”

“Why no, but—”

“Stow it!” The Queen smiled, exposing blackened teeth. She tottered over to her bed and collapsed onto the mattress, allowing Burghley to draw her coverlets up to her chin. Her amber eyes danced playfully as she stared at Lopez’s daughter.

“I will receive you now, dear girl,” she intoned sweetly.

Rebecca felt dizzy. As she approached the Queen she realized that she was trembling from head to foot. Unsteady on her legs, she managed three deep curtsies.

“You may rise,” Elizabeth announced as she held out her hand for Rebecca to kiss. “Don’t just stand there, Burghley, have someone bring the maiden a pillow so she may sit.”

“Yes, madam.” Burghley bowed and left.

“And
you,
” she said, turning to Roderigo. “What good can
you
do me?”

“Whatever is in my power.”

“Which isn’t much, is it?”

“Too meager for Your Grace.”

She coughed up a ball of sputum and spit it into a laced handkerchief. “Your flattery is revolting,” Elizabeth said. She gestured Lopez upward. “You may rise.”

Roderigo stood but said nothing. A lady-in-waiting brought in a red pillow. She curtsied before the Queen, lay the cushion down.

A fair little wench, Roderigo thought. Rosy and round… no more than Rebecca’s age? He had stiffened with lust that now repulsed him. God’s blood, where did the time go?

He barked at the maiden, “Prepare for your Queen a posset of milk, honey, and ale immediately.”

She nodded stupidly.

“Go,” the Queen commanded her.

She curtsied and scurried out the door.

“Shake not like a cornered deer,” she told Roderigo. “Prance over here and do something.” To Rebecca she said, “Sit at my feet, my sweet. Your face is pleasing to gaze upon.”

Rebecca took the pillow and sat on the floor.

“No, no, no, you silly goose,” Elizabeth chided, then winked at Rebecca. “Though I hope you not be a Winchester goose.” She laughed at her pun. “Now tell me, dear thing: Have you been touched by the Great Pox?”

Rebecca blushed. “No, Your Grace.”

“The filthy French do give the English such lifelong gifts,” Elizabeth cackled. “Are you certain you’re clean?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You must have hordes of men competing for your maidenhead.” Elizabeth smiled wickedly. “Or should I speak in the past tense?”

Rebecca turned a deep shade of scarlet.

“Come, come,” the Queen said abruptly. “Off the floor. You may sit at the foot of my mattress.”

Rebecca did as told, then asked, “May I speak?”

“I wish you would,” Elizabeth said. “Your voice is so much more palatable than the others that surround me.”

“May I rub Your Grace’s feet with ointment? I fear they are cold.”

“A fine idea,” the Queen said, exposing her legs. The skin was pale and loose, webbed with thin blue lines. She pulled off her sable slippers and slapped her feet into Rebecca’s lap — two blocks of ice.

“Rub, dear girl,” Elizabeth commanded.

Roderigo gave Rebecca a sympathetic look, then handed her a rag, a tin of sweet-smelling herbs, and a vial of ointment from his bag. The woman’s feet had become encrusted with flecks of dirt and scaly skin. Rebecca slowly eased away the dead skin and methodically picked off the dirt with her fingernails. After the royal feet were cleaned, she began her rubbing and perfuming. The toes turned from white to pink, from pink to red. As they did, Elizabeth almost purred with contentment. Then, still playing the feline, she turned to Roderigo, arched her back and snarled,

“I feel awful.”

“The demands placed upon Your Grace are endless—”

“I know the enormities of my duties, you drooling dolt. Quit fawning me. Instead, tell me what ails me.”

“You have a fever, madam. You need honeysuckle leaves steeped in water.”

“My throat hurts.” She rubbed her neck. Her eyes suddenly beseeched Roderigo’s. “Quimsy?”

“Open your mouth, madam,” Roderigo said.

The Queen obeyed.

Roderigo raised a lit candlestick and peered down the royal throat. A moment later he shook his head no. “Your gullet is merely raw and red. No telltale signs of quimsy.”

The Queen smiled and pushed the candle away. “Get that away from my face, you jack. The light irritates my eyes.”

“As you wish.” Roderigo tried to remain calm. “The posset that I have requested shall soothe your throat. Also, I will give Your Grace something to help the fever.” Roderigo took out a small jug sealed with wax. “A spoonful every hour until the royal forehead feels cool to the touch.”

“Your little girl has grown up, Ruy,” the Queen said, wiggling her newly warmed toes. “My, how she has grown up! Why didn’t you ever do this for me?”

“Why… Your Grace never asked,” he sputtered.

“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.