The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman

very distasteful.”

      “We must get back to business,” Aben Ayesh said uncomfortably. “Ruy will deal with his matters as he sees fit—”

      “I refuse to believe it,” Roderigo interrupted.

      “Ruy—” Aben Ayesh said.

      Roderigo stood up and began to pace. “I cannot believe it!”

      “Perhaps it’s simply a ruse,” Jorge suggested. “Perhaps the thought of sudden marriage has left Miguel with cold feet.”

      Thomas shook his head. “Dunstan and I have known long before Raphael perished. Many times we’ve seen Miguel roaming St. Paul’s Marketplace, frequenting places that specialize in … Italian taste. He fancies himself quite a wit, accompanying the likes of Marlowe—”

      “Miguel with Marlowe?” Roderigo gasped. “That godless heretic, that hater of Jews? Impossible!”

      “Love is strange,” Dunstan snickered.

      Roderigo slapped him soundly across the cheek. Dunstan’s hand went to his face. His eyes burned with fury.

      Roderigo said, “How dare you mock your cousin?”

      Dunstan spoke slowly, “I mock him not. I simply tell you the truth, whether it be acceptable to you or not, Uncle. I pray you, do not kill the messenger.”

      Roderigo sank down onto the floor. Thomas took out a poniard and, without thinking, began to scrape the mortar between the stones.

      “Marry, Thomas, put that away,” said Jorge. “You’ll loosen the blocks.”

      “Your pardon, Father.” Thomas returned the dagger to his belt. “I meant no harm.”

      Dear God, such a horrendous predicament, Roderigo thought. Raphael gone. The mission in jeopardy. And my dear Becca. He said, “How can I marry my daughter to a buggerer?”

      Dunstan asked if he could speak. Roderigo nodded wearily.

      “Uncle,” Dunstan said. “It’s best if Rebecca remains available until an appropriate suitor is found.”

      “The Baron of Herdford seemed interested in her,” Thomas remarked. “At least, he inquired about her quite extensively.”

      “Bah,” Dunstan answered, brushing him off. “He’s an old bag of wind whose sword lost his thrust many summers ago.”

      “Tis not only rutting that makes a good husband,” Benjamin argued. “He’s rich.”

      “Tut, Benjamin,” Dunstan replied. “Have pity on your sister. The Baron of Herdford!”

      “The old lord will die soon,” Benjamin persisted. “As a wealthy widow with title, Rebecca could have her pick of suitors.”

      “She has her pick anyway,” Dunstan said. “Beautiful, young—”

      “Mulish,” Ben said.

      “Say rather she’s … an independent thinker,” Dunstan said, smiling.

      Roderigo suddenly turned on him. “With quite a bit of help from you, Dunstan. You’ve filled her brain with unfortunate ideas, nephew. Twas not helpful to her or me.”

      “Uncle,” said Dunstan, “if knowledge be port, Rebecca be a drunkard. The girl soaks it up. Better she be tutored by a kinsman than a stranger who will lure her away from family—”

      “Enough of my family matters,” Roderigo suddenly announced. “It’s my problem and I’ll do what’s best for my daughter … We must concentrate on the problem at hand. There are lives to be saved.”

      “Here, here,” said Aben Ayesh. “People are dying! We must save them. As Raphael’s brother, Miguel still is the logical choice.”

      “Miguel? Bah!” Dunstan exclaimed. “Better to send Rebecca.”

      “Miguel has always been trustworthy,” answered Jorge. “I’m sure he’d be willing to continue his brother’s missions. To suggest him a coward, Dunstan, because of his … his peculiar passions, is ill-advised.”

      “Very well,” Dunstan said. “If you think him able—”

      “He is able,” Jorge said. “Do you agree, Solomon?”

      “We are in complete accord,” said Aben Ayesh. “It is settled. We shall talk to Hector and Miguel immediately.”

      “At least Miguel will have something in which to prove his manhood,” Dunstan snickered.

      Thomas said, “Need I remind you that Miguel is tall and strong. He excels at hawking. He relishes the thrill of the hunt!”

      “Aye,” Dunstan laughed. “As long as the hunt is for boys.”

      “Men,” Thomas corrected.

      “There’s a difference?” Dunstan said.

      “A boy is your five-year-old son, brother,” Thomas said. “Miguel fancies men. Always has. Tis hard to fathom why God fashioned him as such. One would think him weak and timid. Yet Miguel’s grip is as strong as the peregrine’s.”

      “Miguel is weak in the art of swordplay,” Dunstan said.

      “So are you,” Thomas stated.

      “Quiet,” Jorge said to his sons. “Both of you are like jackals at each other’s throats.”

      Roderigo said, “Dunstan raised a good point. Miguel is weak in his swordsmanship. Considerably weaker than had been Raphael, God rest his soul. And many were better than he had been.”

      Jorge agreed. He said, “Thomas, it’s up to you to teach him your expertise.”

      “I’ll set up regular times to spar with him,” Thomas said.

      “Instruct the woman to act the man,” Dunstan said with a smile.

      “Does jealousy talk?” Thomas asked his brother.

      “I? Jealous of Miguel? Absurd!”

      “You have yet to forgive him for the pouncing he bestowed upon you at our last wrestling bout.”

      “Wrestling for sport is one thing, Thomas,” Dunstan retorted hotly. “Braving peril is quite another and is reserved for only true men.”

      Jorge wagged an angry finger at Dunstan. “Keep your thoughts to yourself, my elder son. Sport with Miguel as well. He needs much practice if he is to be prepared for the ordeals that await him.”

      “As you wish, Father.”

      Jorge faced Aben Ayesh. “How much time do we have to teach Miguel?”

      “Never enough,” Aben Ayesh said. “A merchant galleon is due here in twenty days, docked at Portsmouth for only a week.”

      Not much time at all, Roderigo thought. So much to be done. Twenty days to teach Miguel to ride the treacherous road to the port, how to defend himself against the ruthless highwaymen, how to sneak aboard the ship, find the stowaways, and present them with the forged papers that would give them freedom at last.

      “How many conversos are we to provide papers for?” Roderigo asked.

      “De Gama wrote at least a dozen,” Aben Ayesh answered.

      Esteban Ferreira de Gama was their Iberian contact, the man responsible for concealing the Spanish conversos on the galleons. King Philip knew about him. As long as the English conversos continued to pay His Majesty, Ferreira de Gama was safe from harassment by the Spanish sentries guarding the docks. But once on board, the stowaways were on their own.

      “How many men, women, and children?” Roderigo asked. “I have to tell the women what kind of papers to prepare.”

      “I know not,” Aben Ayesh answered.