The Quality of Mercy (59 page)

“Miguel, let’s not discuss this now,” Rebecca said.

“I love you as a sister,” Miguel said, ignoring her. “You understand my needs, I understand yours, Becca.”

“Rest,” Rebecca said. “We’ll talk about this when you’re stronger.”

“I’ve much strength!”

“I know. All I meant to say was—”

Miguel blurted out, “You didn’t sleep alone last night.”

Rebecca felt her body stiffen. So that was the reason for this conversation. Yes, Miguel understood her womanly needs as long as they weren’t acted upon.

“So?” she said coldly.

“You cannot slap me in the face, Becca!” Miguel exclaimed. “You cannot embarrass me in front of servants and staff! How much I’d suffer if such indiscretion should come to my father’s ears! Is this your idea of being a goodly wife?”

“I never asked to be married!” she cried. “I never
wanted
to marry — not to you, or even your brother for that matter. But no one was ever interested in what I wanted!” Her voice suddenly wilted. “All I desire is peace. What do you
want
from me? To shut out my womanhood at eighteen?”

Miguel sank back into his propped pillows, feeling sapped and short of breath. Stabs of pain shot through his back and sides. “I feel hot,” he said.

Rebecca felt his forehead. Miguel had refused to eat his medicinal mush and the fever had returned. She excused herself, returned ten minutes later with a leather pouch full of ice and placed it on his forehead.

“Where’s Shakespeare?” Miguel asked.

“Tenacity has always been your strongpoint,” Rebecca said. “Shakespeare’s been holed up in the North Chamber since dawn, writing… something. I’ve invited him to stay for Father’s homecoming.”

“And he accepted the invitation?”

“Yes.” Rebecca looked Miguel in the eye. “Shakespeare fought with us, side by side. He deserves to partake in the banqueting. Tomorrow he returns to his rented room within the walls of London.”

Miguel said, “You still love him, don’t you?”

Rebecca felt a sudden rush of emotion. With a trembling voice she answered, “With all my heart.”

“And he loves you?”

“He says as much.”

“And you believe him?”

Rebecca said, “Miguelito, his words are gold.”

“Yes,” Miguel said. “They’re beautiful, but are they solid?”

“They’re true,” Rebecca answered.

Miguel sighed. Who was this player anyway? A middle-aged, balding nothing, who was married to boot. How could he resist a dazzling young woman like Rebecca — a woman of superior rank? But the player was brave, no denying that. Daft as well. Lovestruck! Why else would he fight for Jews? Miguel knew he couldn’t protest Rebecca’s dalliances with the player, because he had nothing to offer her in return. But he was still her betrothed. One day he would be her husband.

He said, “As your future master, I’ve two demands.”

“Speak,” Rebecca said.

“One, don’t dally with the player under the roof of our home. Two, give me at least
one
legitimate heir — a son we both know is mine. I can provide your womb with ample seed, Becca.
Younger
seed.”

Rebecca felt her cheeks go hot.

“Agreed?” Miguel asked.

“You ask me as if I had a choice,” Rebecca said.

“As my wife, you don’t have any option but to obey me.” Miguel squeezed her hand. “But as my dearest friend, I beg this of you.”

Rebecca smiled.

Miguel was a wonderful man, so much kinder to her than those in the past who had ached for her body. She kissed him and swore that she would honor his requests.

Miguel hugged his pillow with his left hand. “Becca?” he asked.

“What?”

“When will I be able to move my right arm? It feels completely dead.”

Rebecca felt her body begin to shake. She knew she’d have to tell him, but that didn’t make this moment any less dreadful. To make matters worse, Miguel was right-handed. Rebecca picked up the limb and curled the fingers into a fist. The muscles underneath were still full and tight. “Try to move your fingers.”

“I
have
tried, Becca,” Miguel said exasperatedly. “Many times. How long will this last?”

She bent the limb at the elbow, scratched the underside of the forearm. “Can you feel my nails?”

“No.”

She scratched another spot.

“No, nothing,” Miguel said. “I tell you the arm is dead. When will it heal?”

Rebecca rotated his arm at the shoulder joint. She asked Miguel to repeat the motion, which he did.

He said impatiently, “My shoulder is well… except for the limitations of the stitches in the back. It’s my
arm,
Becca.”

She ran her hands over her face, then said, “Miguelito, certain nerves had to be cut when I removed the blade from thy back.”

“How long will it take for them to mend?” Miguel asked.

Rebecca felt tears coming down her cheeks. Very softly she said, “Nerves do not mend, Miguel.”

Miguel’s head jolted up. “What!” he whispered.

“Nerve tissue is very delicate—”

“My arm is to remain lifeless forever?” Miguel said, breathing rapidly.

“Calm yourself—”

“Cannot a master surgeon repair the damage? Sew the nerve together again?”

Rebecca wiped her cheeks with her fingers, then laid her hands on his shoulders. “No,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. Perhaps another more skilled than I could have done better.”

Miguel felt weak. The room spun before him. He closed his eyes but still felt himself spinning, flying through the air. He remembered the feel of the dagger sinking into his back. He gasped as he envisioned Thomas breaking through the water’s surface, Thomas’s flailing arm pushing the poniard deeper into his spine.

Miguel became dizzy, nauseated. He couldn’t talk.

“I’m sorry, Miguel,” Rebecca cried. “Please forgive me. I’m so very sorry.”

Miguel reached out for her hand and listened to her sob. His own weeping was silent.

Sarah Lopez had personally supervised every detail of the homecoming. She’d stood side by side with Cook, sweating in the kitchen, peering over his shoulder, sampling his dishes. The meats were undercooked, Sarah complained. Back into the oven, she ordered. The lettuce was wilting, she railed on. The scullery maids had been careless and had left the leaves in hot air! More sweets! Does not the master enjoy gingerbread as well as sugar cakes? More comfits! More marmalades!

The mistress of the manor was equally as demanding with the doctor’s personal body servant, Martino, with the chamberlains, the footmen, the grooms. Boil the water for the bath now! Sarah insisted. A goodly mistress dare not let her master wait even a second for a good, hot soak! Kindle the fire. Lay out the doctor’s clothes. Prepare his turnspit, his toilet!

Rebecca spent most of her time tending to Miguel and keeping out of her mother’s way. She had tried to talk to Shakespeare, to catch him alone, but it seemed a pair of eyes were always upon her; Dunstan’s, her mother’s, Hector’s. Wherever she walked, lay people or staff watched her — men and women with wagging tongues.

Do no dishonor to thy husband
.

Yet Rebecca hurt to see her lover and was determined to meet with him alone to exchange vows of love and passion.

The opportunity came shortly after three of the clock. Miguel was asleep. Rebecca tiptoed out of his chambers, down the hall to the guest closet. Shakespeare answered her knock immediately and pulled her into the room, into his arms. They kissed passionately. Shakespeare abruptly broke it off.

“I cannot stay here past tonight,” Shakespeare said. “I’m an unwelcome guest. At best, I’m tolerated by thy kinsmen with thinly veiled contempt, at worst, I’m glared at with open hostility.”

“I love thee,” Rebecca said.

“I love thee as well,” Shakespeare said. “Let us flee to the Continent together! To France, to Genoa, to Venice, Becca. I speak Italian and they will welcome my talents as a bookwriter—”

“I cannot.”

“Thou can do whatever thou wishes.”

“I need time.”

“Time for what?” Shakespeare asked.

“Miguel still mends. I must care for him.”

“Thou told me that he’s past death’s clutches.”

“Yes, but—”

He grabbed her shoulders. “Come with me!”

“My family…” Rebecca faltered. “I have to think about this, Willy.”

Shakespeare snapped back, “They sell thee as if thou wert merchandise. Dunstan offered me money if I’d leave thee forever.
Pounds,
Becca, not pennies, not shillings…
pounds
!”

“I’ll kill him,” Rebecca swore.

“Yes, my lover,” Shakespeare said. “Kill him with action. Come with me!” He hugged her. “Come with me.”

“I’m a Jewess, Will,” Rebecca whispered.

“Thou art a lawful Christian,” Shakespeare said. “Thou wast baptized.”

Rebecca shook her head.

Shakespeare sighed. “No matter. Together we’ll both be baptized — anointed into the Church of Rome. What difference does it make how we worship, as long as we’re together?”

Rebecca said, “What of thy wife and children?”

Shakespeare whispered venemously, “Why dost thou lay stepping-stones in front of a blind man? I love thee and thought thou felt the same.”

“I do—”

“But not enough,” Shakespeare said.

“Thou asks me to become a Papist,” Rebecca said. “Dost thou lovest me enough to become a Jew?”

Shakespeare stared at her. “Why would thou wish such a curse upon me? A Jewess, thou art, but thy soul shall be saved by me, thy Christian husband!”

“I don’t want a Christian husband,” Rebecca said. “I want no husband at all!”

She gasped the minute the words were out of her mouth. Shakespeare dropped his arms to his sides.

“Then what am I to thee?” he asked. “A toy to be petted and fondled until novelty erodes and passion is spent? Am I then to be tossed aside?”

“No, Will,” Rebecca protested.

“I’m willing to give up everything I own for thee,” Shakespeare said. “Wilt thou do as much?”

“I don’t know… you must give me time to think.”

“How much time? An hour? A day? A year?”

“A year,” Rebecca said.

“After thou hast married Miguel, eh? And I noticed thou hast addressed me with a you. Is our intimacy dead?”

“No… marry, I cannot think clearly.” Rebecca’s head began to pound. “Give me until the end of the year. It’s only six weeks away.”

“And what magic shall come to pass then?”

“Will, I pray you — I mean I prithee, I
beg
thee, give me time. Thou hast asked me to give up my family, my religion—”

“I give up my family and religion, my land and language as well. Gods, I
postponed
my revenge on the Devil for thee—”

“Settle thy revenge,” Rebecca said. “Thou’ll not sleep until thy revenge is complete!”

“Providence has ordained that I shall have my vengeance,” Shakespeare said. “But thee… I feel our hearts beating further out of rhythm with each minute that passes.”

Rebecca said, “I pray, give us six weeks.”

“No,” Shakespeare said. “The moment is now. This minute! Once thou art ensnared into the bosom of thy family, I’ve lost the battle.”

Her sweet, sweet William. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Of going through life without his touch. She said, “I will do whatever thou desires. But I beseech thee. Let me see my father one more time.”

“Then tonight thou’ll come away with me?”

Rebecca bit her lip. She couldn’t let him go. Her body needed him as sure as it needed blood. He was her sustenance, her vapors of life. What heaven it would be to wake up in his arms. She was consumed by his love, and her brain was beyond its reasonable wits. She exhaled, then rapidly nodded.

“Swear it!” Shakespeare said. “Swear thou’ll come with me. Swear by thy God.”

“I’ll swear it by
thy
God,” she answered. “Very soon to be
my
God.”

Shakespeare paused, then said, “Well, then, swear by my God —
our
God.”

Rebecca pledged her troth in the name of Jesu Cristo.

The Great Hall of Roderigo’s house greeted him like the arms of a lover. Its walls were covered in brightly hued arras work, its stone floors covered with sweet rushes sprinkled with aromatic herbs. Torches and candles were lit from every wall sconce. The night was dreary, cold and wet, but the fire in the hearth burned as never before.
Warmth
. He’d forgotten its feel.

Looking around, Roderigo tried to get oriented. His family, attired in their finest clothes, was lined up in front of the dais, waiting to greet him. Three dozen servants, scrubbed shiny, stood nervously at two long trestle tables, waiting for him to be seated at the place of honor — at the dais, in the middle seat. His chair was as big as a throne. Yes, he was king of this house, but he felt as awkward as a commoner. How long had he been imprisoned in Burghley House? A week, they had told him. It felt like a month.

Rebecca anxiously awaited her father’s entrance. Never had she seen him looking more haggard. Deep folds of flesh underlined his eyes, his beard seemed to have grayed overnight, his walk had become stooped and old. His furlined physician’s robe hung on his thinner frame. She held her tears in check and waited patiently as Roderigo greeted those who stood in line before her. Uncle Jorge, Uncle Solomon. Hector Nuñoz, who made excuses for Miguel’s absence. Roderigo said he understood and would minister to Miguel as soon as the festivities were over.

Next, Roderigo greeted Benjamin and his nephews — Dunstan, Thomas, Cousin Jacob, and Enoch, Uncle Solomon’s son.

Then the women. Her mother bowed before her master, openly crying. Roderigo gently chided her for her emotional outburst. But there was kindness in his scolding. The quiver in his voice only made Sarah cry harder. Then Roderigo dutifully kissed his sister-in-law Maria, Dunstan’s wife Grace, Thomas’s wife Leah, and patted their children on the head. The last in line was Reina. Roderigo inquired who she was, and after Dunstan explained, Roderigo picked her up and kissed her forehead. Dunstan announced that she had been adopted by his family, and Roderigo commended him for his generosity.