The Quality of Mercy (78 page)

“Go,” he whispered.

She nodded and boarded the boat. As they rowed her toward the Tower, away from Shakespeare, Rebecca blew her lover a kiss good-bye — a kiss he returned in kind. She watched him fade into the ashen expanse of fog and sea.

Gone.

What stood before her were hostile walls — a place of no escape. She reminded herself that she was just a visitor, but the thought only deepened the pain of her father’s bondage.

Gods, let this be over.

She saw the arch of Traitor’s Gate flanked by the Tower wharf. The top half was semicircular steel lattice, iron spikes welded to the bottom of the cross-bar. The doors of the gate were open, greeting her like the jaws of a dragon. The waterman rowed quickly through the gate, past St. Thomas’s Tower, until the boat pulled alongside a staircase.

Time to exit to dry land. Rebecca was dizzy, her feet numb as she stepped on the solid ground. Her brain started to hum and black sparkles appeared before her eyes. She felt herself falling but was caught by a yeoman warder before she hit the ground. The beefeater was young and anxious. His blue eyes seemed refreshingly honest.

“Are you well, mistress?” he asked. “You’re ghastly white.”

“My feet…” Rebecca mumbled. “Twas a cold ride on the river this morning.” A trickle of sweat ran down her face. She mopped it off with a kerchief and took a deep breath.

“Ye almost fainted,” said the fat warder — a swine, he was.
Her
blanket had been stuffed into his livery coat. Yet he was so obese it hardly showed.

“Best ye rest,” said the blue-eyed warder. “The ride was quite cold.”

“I’m well now,” Rebecca answered.

“Can you walk?” asked the blue-eyed warder.

A third guard — a short man with a skimpy beard — grunted at them to hurry it up.

“Yes, we must hurry.” Rebecca shook her feet, trying to bring the blood back to her toes. She laughed nervously. “There. I think I’m ready to chance it on my own.”

The warder released her from his arms. Rebecca stood and took tentative steps up the stairs to a cobblestone pathway. The fat warder had no patience with her slow-footedness and urged her along with a shove. The mortar between the cobblestones was pocked and rough. The heel of her shoe had loosened and she tripped. Again it was the blue-eyed yeoman who helped her to her feet.

“I’m terribly clumsy this morrow,” Rebecca said, almost in tears.

“Speed it up!” ordered the wispy-bearded warder. He was already five paces ahead of her.

The blue-eyed guard took Rebecca’s hand. “Hang on to me, mistress. I’ll make sure you don’t fall again.”

“Thank you,” whispered Rebecca.

They hurried her along. Rebecca tried to get her bearings. The Thames was to her right, so they must be heading east, on the outer bailey. To her left was the inner wall, the inner curtain of the Tower complex. The stones were blackened with time but the buildings seemed as solid as if erected yesterday. Cross-shaped loopholes were carved into the wall every fifty paces, the battlement crenellated. Everything about the place was hard, dense, impenetrable.

Rebecca felt light-headed. Mercifully, a waft of foul-smelling sea assaulted her nostrils, bringing instant clarity into her brain. She was entrenched in fear but forced herself onward.

“Where resides my father?” she managed to ask.

“Ye’ll find out soon enough,” answered the fat warder.

The men walked faster. The stones beneath Rebecca’s feet seemed like stumbling blocks and she fought to keep her balance.

“Come along, girl,” ordered the piggy guard. He smiled and added, “Stay too long and we’ll be throwing
you
in the Tower as well.”

Rebecca looked to the blue-eyed warder for comfort. He squeezed her arm and smiled. His eyes. They reminded Rebecca of Shakespeare.

They approached a large tower near the eastern end of the fortress. “That’s Lanthorn Tower, is it not?” Rebecca said to the warder by her side.

“Aye, mistress.”

“Is my father there?” she asked.

“Nay, mistress, the next one over—”

“Quiet!” ordered the pig.

“She’ll find out in a minute, sir,” said the blue-eyed warder. He turned to Rebecca and said, “Your father’s imprisoned on the second floor of the Salt Tower. His cell is spacious. He was moved there not more than a week ago on the Queen’s orders.”

“God save the Queen,” Rebecca said.

“God save the Queen,” the yeomen warders replied in single voice.

The Salt Tower rose from the southeast corner of the fortress, a three-quarter cylinder of stone, the remaining quarter filled by a square turret that housed the spiral staircase. The stairs were so narrow that Rebecca could not place both feet on the step at the same time. She concentrated on her footwork, tried not to fall. The walls were an irregular patchwork of solid rock coated with dirt and streaked with chalky limestone deposits. Midway between the first and second floors the stairwell widened to allow for a deep hole between the wall of the turret and the staircase — a privy, stinking with recent use. The air was chilled, the walls freezing to the touch. The three warders took Rebecca as far as the second landing. There she was met by three other beefeaters. The two sets of guards exchanged greetings, then the first trio left.

The warder in charge this time was older, his face scored by wrinkles. His expression was blank, but his voice was kind as he told Rebecca to wait a moment. He fished out a ring of keys, then opened the cell door.

Roderigo was sitting at a small desk, a sheet of paper, an inkpot and a quill before him.

Rebecca whispered, “Father.”

There was no response.

She approached him and saw that the ink was dry, the paper blank.

“Father,” she repeated.

Roderigo’s first thought was his ears had deceived him, his eyes were playing tricks. A vision, an angel, a goddess. No, better. His daughter! His Becca! He felt the tears come down in torrents and could do nothing to stop them. They rained upon his paper. Weakened by shock, he dropped his head in the enclosure of his arms and sobbed upon his desk. Rebecca rushed to him and embraced his back.

The warder shut the door and took up post inside the cell. “You’ve a half hour, mistress,” he said.

Rebecca raised her head and said thank you. “Father,” she whispered.

Roderigo kept crying.

“Father,” said Rebecca, “we haven’t much time and I have a great deal to tell you—”

“You’re going to have to speak louder, mistress,” said the beefeater. His voice was firm.

Rebecca apologized and forced her father to stand. His legs seemed wobbly. He needed exercise. At least the cell was quite spacious, thanks be to Her Majesty. Five wall faces, each one containing a splayed arrow loop within an arched embrasure. A desk, a writing chair, a small fireplace, fresh straw on the floor. No privy. He was probably taken to the one in the stairwell….

“Let’s take a walk,” Rebecca said.

Roderigo jerked his head up. “I am freed?”

“No,” Rebecca said. She felt sick to her stomach. “Let’s take a walk around your closet—”

“My prison,” Roderigo said flatly.

Rebecca slipped her arm under her father’s. Gods, he’d become so thin and pale. His beard, once full and rich with color, had turned completely white and brittle.

“Are you warm enough, Father?” she asked. “I brought you clothes.”

“Clothes?”

“Yes, clothes,” she said. “Warm clothes. Woolens, thick hose—”

“Clothes?” Roderigo repeated.

Rebecca held back tears. “Let us walk for a while,” she said. “Get blood into the legs.”

She gripped her father and led him around the cell, each step taken with great care.

After a few moments he said, “I’m tired.”

“Yes,” Rebecca said. “Pray, Father, sit down in your chair and I shall dress you properly. Do they feed you well?”

Roderigo allowed himself to be seated. He said nothing. Without warning he started to cry again. Rebecca dried his cheeks, then wiped her own eyes. She was completely un-prepared for such deterioration. She undid his points. His garments were filthy, the smell so malodorous that she had to turn her head away as she pulled them off. Her father had always been so fastidiously clean. His disintegration was ripping out her heart.

Let me be strong, she prayed. Do not cry in front of him. She thought of something to say, then remembered the warder. She dare not speak of the Queen’s contemplations. Anything could be misinterpreted as treason.

She said, “I shall tell you about the family—”

“Louder,” reminded the warder.

Rebecca raised her voice. “Mother sends her love.” She took off his old stockings and immediately noticed open blisters upon the white skin of his calves. “What are these?” she asked.

“Burns,” Roderigo said.

“The sores must be treated—”

Her father broke into frightening laughter. Rebecca forced herself to breathe smoothly. Without speaking she ran her fingers through the pomade of her hair and covered the sores with the grease. Slowly, she slipped the woolen hose over his legs. Roderigo didn’t even wince.

“Mother sends her love.” She continued to dress him. “Dear me, I’ve already said that, haven’t I…. Miguel is well. His right arm is dead, but he has mastered the quill with his left. He and Uncle Solomon have had correspondence. Cousin Jacob has been in England — also conversing with Miguel. I fear that Miguel is about to enter the world of mercantilism at their behest — cloth trading, I think, as I heard a great deal about the silk route.”

Roderigo said nothing.

Cheerfully, Rebecca went on, “Dunstan and Thomas have been talking to Uncle Solomon as well.” She looked at the guard. He seemed alert, yet utterly bored. “The company is planning to expand its efforts into the New World —
if
Uncle Solomon can get another charter in the Levant. Thomas is in Turkey now with Leah — they’re staying at her father’s villa — but he’s due back in a week.” She waited for any kind of reaction from her father but received none. He was worse than Grandmama — at least her mind had been sharp to the end.

Dear God,
help
him.

“Benjamin is going to Padua—”

“When?” asked Roderigo.

A
reaction
! Blessed is God!

“Not immediately,” Rebecca said. “After this unfortunate incident is cleared up and your good name is restored.”

Roderigo was silent. A strange smile formed upon his lips.

“Anyway, Padua has not yet confined the — confined certain people behind gates, as other Italian states do. Uncle Jorge has a cousin named Benzoni who resides in the city. His son studies at the university there… under Galileo Galilei, the famous mathematician. Surely you must have studied some of his works, Father.”

Roderigo didn’t answer.

Rebecca sighed. Her father seemed to crawl back into his shell.

She tried again. “Benjamin… Benjamin was invited to spend some time at the Benzoni villa…. Actually, Ben’s Italian has become quite educated. He’s studying Greek as well, Father. You’d be quite proud of him.”

Lowering his head, Roderigo began to cry again, his bony chin sinking into the hairless skin of his chest.

“Oh Father!” Rebecca exclaimed. “We all love you so much. Not a minute passes where you’re not on all of our minds. We’ll overcome this mishap, I swear we will!’

“Fifteen more minutes, mistress,” said the warder.

“What about Grandmama?” Roderigo asked suddenly.

“Grandmama?” Rebecca said weakly. “Then you don’t… Of course, how could you know.”

Roderigo looked at her expectantly.

Rebecca said, “She died, Father. My God, I’m sorry to tell you this… three weeks ago today.”

Roderigo was slow to react. Finally he said, “She was a great woman when she was your age.” He paused, then said, “Her name was Teresa Roderiguez, you know.”

“Yes—”

“She had quite a story to tell,” Roderigo said with emphasis. “Did she ever tell you the story about her as Teresa Roderiguez?”

“The story of her life?”

Roderigo began to address her in rapid Portuguese. The warder sprung to his feet, struck Roderigo across the face.

“English only!” he ordered.

Roderigo seemed unaffected by the beefeater’s slap.

“My honest apologies, my good warder,” Rebecca said. “My father was simply reminiscing about more pleasant times — childhood memories.”

“I care not, as long as he does it in English.”

“By your will, sir,” Rebecca said. She turned to Roderigo. “You must speak English, Father.”

Dejected, Roderigo said nothing. The beefeater returned to his position at the door.

“Grandmama’s name was Teresa Roderiguez, yes,” said Rebecca carefully. She dressed her father in a clean shirt and sleeves.

“Teresa,”
Roderigo enunciated. “Think of your grandmama as Teresa. As a young girl in a foreign country.” He whispered, “About to be burnt.”

“Louder,” demanded the warder.

“Of course, sir,” Rebecca told the guard. Still confused, she finished with her father’s points. Suddenly her brain came alive. Her head began to buzz, her heart thumped in her chest. “You must speak up when you talk to me, Father,” she said to Roderigo as she winked. “The good yeoman warder must be able to hear our conversation.”

Roderigo grinned, his smile conspiratorial.

“Teresa Roderiguez was a remarkable woman,” Rebecca said. “Very brave, and God was with her. So shall God be with you, Father… in the same way!”

Roderigo nodded rapidly.

“Your time is up, mistress,” said the guard.

“Yes.” Rebecca stood. “I will think of Teresa, Father.”

“Aye,” Roderigo said, his hands clinging to her gown. “Think of Teresa.”

“I will.” She hugged and kissed him good-bye, and his hands released her dress.

Roderigo whispered in her ear, “Even as I hang, Becca.”

“Come along,” ordered the yeoman.

Rebecca blew him a kiss as the door was slammed then locked behind her. She stood for a moment, until a guard gently prodded her along. As she walked back, she thought about what Father had told her. She knew she had to save him, and Father, through well-staged moonstruck ramblings, had told her how. A windstorm of schemes and plans blew in her mind. Visions of corpses and grave diggers.