The Quality of Mercy (79 page)

Another stay of execution, the Lopez hanging rescheduled sometime after Mayday. It gave the conversos more time to implement their plans. Rebecca told no one, not even Shakespeare, yet he knew something was brewing. Rebecca had become preoccupied. Begging for understanding, she rarely came to his closet. Shakespeare didn’t challenge her; her father’s life was at stake. Besides, he’d become involved in his own plots of revenge.

The conversos kept close watch over their homes during the Easter season. They prayed for peace yet remained vigilant. The period of Lent through Palm Sunday was always dangerous for those of Jewish extraction because of its association with the holiday of Passover — the Feast of the Unleavened Bread. For centuries Christians had mistakenly believed Passover a time when Jews killed Christian babies and drank their blood. This year was especially dangerous because Roderigo — the
Jewish
doctor — sat in the Tower, accused of trying to poison the Queen. Though the crowds outside the Lopez estate had been dispersed by order of Her Majesty, the morality plays could instigate sudden mob riots and impulsive sacking.

The conversos prepared for their secret holiday with extreme caution.

All the household valuables were hidden. Once that was done, the women began their secret work in the wee hours of the morning, when the staff was still asleep. The kitchen was scrubbed. Then came the preparation of the matzoh. Unleavened flour and water were mixed into dough, patted into flat circles, and baked in beehive clay ovens for no longer than eighteen minutes. Though matzoh would be the only bread allowed to the conversos during the eight-day holiday, it would be eaten clandestinely.

The first evening of Passover came. The conversos waited until the staff had gone to bed, then gathered in Roderigo’s closet. In secrecy they quickly read the Haggadah — the story of God’s redemption of the Jews in Egypt. Before they retired for the night, Rebecca placed two wine goblets on Roderigo’s desk — one for the prophet Elijah, the other in honor of her father. She beseeched God: by His mercy who redeemed all the Jews, let another Jew be redeemed.

The holidays came and went and the conversos breathed a sigh of relief. Another spring without incident. The days passed hurriedly. Mayday was only weeks away. Plans were discussed, schemes solidified.

Finally, on St. George’s Day, Rebecca quickly donned the garb of a young gent and found a few blessed idle hours for a walk into town. Her body tingled with expectation. It had been almost a month since she’d seen Shakespeare. Though London was convalescing from two years of plague, this year was proving to be healthier. Only five outbreaks of Black Death in a week, and each one contained rapidly. The air smelled clean, the cisterns yielded sweet water. Yet the wards of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital were still packed with wretched souls, other diseases clamoring for the throne of death as the plague abdicated. Rebecca wondered how the hospital was getting on without Father. Did his enemies ever stop to realize how many lives would have been saved had Father not been cruelly imprisoned? She spat upon their memories as she walked on.

Today London was buzzing with merriment. Lads and lasses flirting, little boys scaring off little girls with loud boos and horrid-looking masks. Tonight would be a time of mummeries — masked plays and dances by the light of the bonfires. Bells and music. Strolling troubadors plucking their lutes, singing songs of spring and young love. Tonight the city streets would be packed with people reveling, drinking themselves blind.

The graveyards would be empty.

She hurried through Cheapside toward Shakespeare’s closet. He should be in good humor, thought Rebecca. The Master of the Revels had announced that the theaters would open soon after Whitsunday. She ran to his tenement and knocked on his door.

No answer.

She knocked again.

Nothing.

She sat in front of his door, dozed off and woke up when she heard the bellman cry out the time. Three-thirty.

With disappointment her constant companion, she left his closet.

The midnight bonfires set London aglow; the graveyard was as black as pitch. Thomas lit a piece of tinder, a glowing orange star in an endless inky sky. He pulled the black hood off his head and motioned for the others to do the same. He said to Rebecca:

“What was the man’s name?”

“Joseph Gladstone,” she whispered. “He died of a foul heart. He was sixty-two, the same height and stature—”

“Even as a corpse?” Dunstan asked. “Death eats away the body.”

“Death was very quick,” Rebecca said. “I saw him at the hospital on Tuesday, and he was dead by Thursday. The resemblance was remarkable. Besides, once we drench the corpse in blood, no one will know the difference. All they’ll see is red—”

A low wail filled the air.

“What was that?” Rebecca whispered.

“Just an owl,” said Benjamin. He hugged his sister protectively.

Miguel said, “Go on, Becca.”

The noise repeated itself.

“Are you certain?” she asked Benjamin.

A bat darted across the expanse of charcoal sky. The hooting stopped and a huge shadow soared after the winged mammal.

“There,” Thomas said. “You see? Just an owl after his supper.”

Rebecca’s eyes darted about. The sky was moonless; the leafless trees stood like cadaverous watchmen about the graveyard. The air was rich with the perfume of newly budding vegetation, but the earth reeked of death.

“Dear God,” said Rebecca.

“Shall I stay with you while the others dig?” offered Miguel. He took her hand.

Rebecca shook her head. “I’m well.” She kissed his hand, his lifeless hand as well.

“You’re certain?” Benjamin asked her.

“Quite certain, Ben. Thank you.”

Miguel asked her, “Have you any idea where this Gladstone’s body is buried?”

Rebecca breathed deeply and looked around. In the daytime the graveyard hadn’t seemed so large, but tonight it was enormous. Acres of tombstones, a garden of the dead. She pointed to the far corner of the cemetery. “I followed the funeral party out here yesterday. I think he’s buried somewhere over there.”

“You’ll keep watch here?” Thomas said.

“Aye,” Rebecca said. “Go.”

Miguel asked, “Are you certain you’re well? You’re as pale as a—”

“Don’t say it!” Dunstan said.

“I’m well,” Rebecca insisted. “Go with God’s speed!”

The men, black-shrouded and carrying shovels, quickly made their way to the other side of the graveyard.

“I feel like a monk in this dress,” complained Dunstan.

“Act like one who has taken a vow of silence,” Thomas replied.

“If you wouldn’t be limping so badly, we would have made better time,” Dunstan said.

“If you would have fought like a true man, I wouldn’t be limping at all!” Thomas said.

“Stop it, both of you,” Benjamin said.

“You’re one to speak harshly,” Dunstan said. “You weren’t even there!”

“It was not my desire to stay in London,” retorted Ben. “Twas
your
father who requested my attendance.”

“And that stopped you, eh?” Thomas sneered.

Miguel broke in, “I was there and I say to all of you, stop it. And for God’s sake, keep your voices down. Roderigo’s life is in extreme jeopardy, and you’re all chattering like magpies. Find the grave, Tommy.”

Thomas passed the light over the tombstones. “Pickerson Oldham, Bartley, Chatterton, Bingham… Glaston was the name?”

“Gladstone,” the other three answered in unison.

“Gladstone, Gladstone.”

“Light the torch, Tommy,” suggested Miguel. “Shine it on the ground and look for freshly dug earth.”

“Someone will see us,” said Benjamin.

“And if we don’t find the plot soon, someone is sure to see us as well,” Miguel said.

Thomas brought the burning tinder to the head of the torch and set it on fire.

“Ah, a beacon,” announced Dunstan.

“Shh,” said Miguel.

“Over there,” Benjamin said, pointing to a mound of newly packed dirt.

“Good, good,” said Thomas.

They hurried to the spot and began digging. They had just started their labors when Rebecca gave the signal whistle.

“The Devil!” said Miguel.

“Quickly, douse the light,” Dunstan said. “We’ve got company.”

Thomas extinguished the flames of the torch. They all lay flat, bellies on the ground.

“The watchman?” Benjamin whispered.

“Let’s pray not,” answered Dunstan.

Two men carrying lanterns stood not more than one hundred feet from them.

“Grave robbers,” said Dunstan. He stood up. “We’ve nothing to fear from them.”

The other men stood. The two ghouls stopped walking. Thomas relit the torch and approached them.

“State your business, men,” he said.

“Looks like our business be the same as yers,” answered one of the grave diggers, eyeing their shovels. He was tall and thin with a huge nose and a thick crop of black hair. His companion was short and dumpy with a broad nose and saucer-shaped eyes.

“We were here first,” Dunstan said.

The big-nose one said, “Aye, but all the society knows that this graveyard belongs to the master.”

“I’m of superior class than ye,” said Dunstan, pointing to his chest. “And I say get out of here.”

Big Nose answered back, “Ye’d not be talking so strong-like ifin it was the master here himself, that’d be the truth, aye?” He turned to his companion.

“That’d be the truth,” chirped the dumpy one.

“And the master won’t be merry to find ye here, that’d be the truth, huh?” said Big Nose.

“That’d be the truth,” said Dumpy.

Thomas drew his sword. “
This
is the only truth I know, good-fellows.” He placed the tip of the sword against the bob in Big Nose’s throat. “Know you this bit of warning?”

Big Nose nodded.

“And you?” Thomas said, looking down at Dumpy.

“That’d be the truth,” answered Dumpy.

“Your master is George Mackering?” asked Thomas.

Big Nose nodded. “Can ye be removin’ that point from me neck?”

Thomas said, “Tell your master he will be compensated for his losses.”

“Who ye be?” asked Big Nose.

“The only one who can challenge George Mackering in a duel,” Thomas answered, drawing the blade across Big Nose’s neck. A thin line of red appeared. “Got that?”

Big Nose jumped back and clutched his throat. He gasped.

Thomas lowered the point of his blade until it touched Big Nose’s groin. “Got that, I asked?” he repeated.

Big Nose nodded.

“And you?” Thomas asked Dumpy.

“That’d be—”

“Get out of here, both of you,” ordered Thomas.

When they were gone, Miguel laughed. “Such audacity. Using
our
chosen graveyard!”

Benjamin joined in, “Men with much gall.”

“One would think them Gauls,” said Dunstan.

Miguel was the first to resume digging. Ten minutes later the coffin was unearthed.

“Who holds the sack?” asked Miguel.

A bat dove at Dunstan. He waved his arm in the air, made contact with the animal and slapped it. The bat flew across the graveyard.

“Good show,” Benjamin said.

“Naturally,” Dunstan said. He turned to Miguel. “I have the sack.” He unfolded a piece of burlap. “Who’s going to do the honors and open up the coffin?”

“Step aside,” Thomas said. He drove his dagger into the wood, twisted and tore the planks apart, piece by piece.

“Tush, that stinks!” Miguel said, covering his nose.

Dunstan held open the sack. “Heave the old boy in.” Thomas looked at Miguel. Miguel looked back at Benjamin. Sighing, Benjamin took a deep breath, then looped his arms around the corpse.

“Troth!” he exclaimed. “He’s heavy as well as putrid.”

“Dead weight,” Dunstan said, and laughed.

“Give me a hand,” Ben said.

Thomas took hold of the feet and the two of them dropped the body into the bag. Dunstan gathered the neck of the sack and closed it with rope.

Thomas said, “Let’s fill this grave and get the hell out of here.”

“I greatly mislike graveyards,” said Dunstan, shoveling dirt back onto the empty coffin.

“As opposed to the rest of us, who adore them,” said Thomas.

“I mind them not,” Miguel answered.

“Why is that?” asked Benjamin.

“I think of who is here and who is not and with great merriment count myself as one who is not. I thank Providence daily that it was only my arm that died during the frightful ordeal.”

Quickly, they filled the grave. Benjamin hoisted the sack over his shoulder. He said, “Let’s hope the body preserves until needed. Rebecca will coat it with ointment to retard its spoilage. She also suggested we rebury it in our property. The cool ground will enhance its preservation.”

“A repulsive idea,” said Dunstan.

“Have you a better one, brother?” asked Thomas.

Dunstan didn’t answer.

They interred the body in a heavily wooded spot on the outskirts of the converso common property. In deference to the man’s religion, Rebecca marked the spot with a simple cross.

While England slept, Rebecca and her mother fashioned material into liveries of the Queen’s guard. As they cut, basted, and stitched by firelight, they spoke of things past and present. They mourned the loss of Grandmama, they prayed for Roderigo’s release. They fantasized about future times, better times. After their nightly toils ended, they curled up in Rebecca’s bed and passed the remainder of the night writing correspondence, jotting notes into diaries, or reading. They became moles, craving the darkness, loathing the light, burying dawn’s ugly truths by sleeping during the day.

But tonight Sarah Lopez was uncommonly tired. She lay in bed stroking Rebecca’s hair, watching her daughter read. She leaned her head against Rebecca’s shoulder and fell asleep. Her dreams were of fairer times, when all her children had been alive. Bittersweet reveries that brought tears to her eyes even as she slept. She was awakened suddenly by a thud upon the window.

Startled, Sarah asked Rebecca, “What was that?”