The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman

with smallpox so long ago,” Dunstan said. “More so a pity that the illness seems only to strike once in a life.”

      “Dunstan!” Miguel said.

      “Harsh, but true,” Dunstan retorted. “Surely she couldn’t avoid Uncle if she were gravely ill.”

      Roderigo glared at his nephew. “You repulsive worm!” He raised his hand, then seeing Dunstan flinch, slowly lowered his arm. Why bother? The boy had only stated in words what he himself had wished all along.

      “There are servants here with big ears, Dunstan,” Roderigo said softly. “And the gutter rat de Andrada as well. Be mindful of that.”

      Dunstan buried his head in his hands. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. “A thousand apologies, Uncle. Raphael’s death has affected my nerves, my manners as well.”

      Miguel placed his hand on Dunstan’s shoulder, cheeks wet with sorrow. “His untimely demise is painful to all of us. But we must go on—”

      “At what costs, my friend?” Dunstan replied. “Our intrigues are becoming too dangerous.”

      Miguel pulled his hand away, laced his fingers together. “Dunstan, I’m the one in peril, yet I’m willing to continue.”

      Because you’re young and rash, Dunstan thought. He said, “Essex is powerful, Miguel. If he should find out—”

      “He will not find out,” Roderigo stated.

      “But—”

      “He knows nothing,” Roderigo insisted.

      “What we do may be falsely interpreted as treason, Uncle,” Dunstan said. “Traitors, Uncle, are quartered at Tyburn!”

      “You speak absurdities,” Roderigo said.

      “Does he?” Thomas asked.

      “We’re loyal subjects of Her Majesty,” Miguel exclaimed. “No one could doubt our unswerving allegiance to the crown.”

      Dunstan said, “We’re negotiating with the Queen’s bitterest enemy without benefit of her counsel. And before you object, Uncle, pray, hear me out.”

      Roderigo waved a hand in the air. “Speak.”

      “The mission was dangerous enough before Raphael had died. Any of our previous correspondence with King Philip could have been—and still could be—enough evidence to hang us—”

      “Yes, yes,” Roderigo said. “Make your point, Dunstan.”

      Dunstan said, “Think about this, Uncle. Raphael was murdered a month ago. King Philip was furious at our carelessness because it put His Majesty in a most awkward position. If the Pope or the Holy See found out—”

      “Neither did,” interrupted Miguel.

      “Let me finish,” Dunstan insisted. “Suppose either one did. Philip is supposed to be the staunch defender of Catholicism. Imagine what would happen to his standing in Rome if he had been caught dealing with conversos. If it were known publicly that he was allowing Jews to escape from his dominions—”

      “Summarize, nephew,” Roderigo said.

      “If that were to happen, Philip would have to restore his credibility to Rome,” Dunstan said. “One way to win back his image as the Catholic king would be to burn more conversos. Thus, by our actions, we could be exposing our brethren to more danger—”

      Roderigo said, “Since Philip himself is still dealing with us, even after Raphael’s death, I don’t think he’s worried about being censured by Rome.”

      Dunstan said, “Yet his latest communications with us have been livid in tone, aye? And after Raphael’s death, Philip has asked us for much more money per head of Jew smuggled out as compensation for his troubles.”

      Roderigo’s eyes widened. Rebecca had been eavesdropping, her tongue flapping to her cousin. He said, “Where did you come to that knowledge?”

      Dunstan turned red. “I hear things.”

      “Rebecca hears things, you mean.” Roderigo was enraged. How could she show so little sense? But he’d deal with her later. He said, “Go on with your point … or her point. I hear my daughter’s words coming from your mouth.”

      Dunstan said, “My thoughts are my own, Uncle.” Almost my own. “We’ve had many communications with Philip this past month—letters of reproach, notes of negotiation for the right price of ‘pearls, musk, and amber.’ Is it possible that maybe one note fell into the wrong hands—into Essex’s hands? Is it possible that the earl has shown the note to Her Majesty and that’s why you’ve not been called to court?”

      “Nonsense,” Roderigo said.

      “You worry too much,” said Miguel. “The Queen has been well and has no need for her doctor’s services.”

      Roderigo regarded Miguel and nodded with appreciation. Miguel held a smile in check. Was there not a glint of moisture in the doctor’s eyes? Perhaps hatred’s cold heart was beginning to thaw.

      “Forget Essex,” Roderigo said. “His spies are amateurs. He knows nothing about missions. If he did, I would have been dead by now. As for Her Grace, Elizabeth’s a keen politician—very adroit indeed. Though Essex be her favorite, she has no use for Essex’s desire of war with Spain. Battle is very costly to the treasury.”

      “It’s not the Queen’s opinion of Spain I fear,” Thomas said, encircling his fingers around the hilt of his sword. So comforting was the chill of metal in his hand. “It’s the sentiment of the populace that worries me. Just walk down Paul’s at noon. Our countrymen cursed the Spaniard with a vengeance. If we were discovered dealing with Spain, the masses would tear us apart before the courts could try us.”

      “Essex owns the heart of the Englishman,” Dunstan said.

      “Essex is a fool,” Roderigo said, stroking his beard.

      How Thomas envied that mannerism.

      “Aye, but the fool is well loved by Her Grace,” he said.

      “So was Tarletan,” Roderigo said. “He had no say in foreign policy.”

      “She uses Essex for her purposes,” Miguel said.

      “And he uses her,” Dunstan said. “It is only a matter of time before Essex finds out. We must stop these intrigues—”

      Roderigo turned to Dunstan, eyes smoldering with rage. “Are you giving me orders, nephew?” he asked softly.

      Dunstan paled and quickly answered no.

      “Good,” said Roderigo. “You’ve been most helpful to us, Dunstan. Your sound mercantile practices have gained us much revenue. But remember your manners when you’re among elders.”

      Even if the elder was lower class, Dunstan thought. But he apologized anyway. This was not the time for confrontation.

      Roderigo said, “Neither Philip nor Elizabeth desire war. Philip is too old, and Essex notwithstanding, Elizabeth is no fool. The Queen does not fight in battles she cannot win.”

      Thomas said, “Uncle, it was Queen Elizabeth who embraced war with Spain and our Don Antonio in his bid for the throne of Portugal. Certainly that was a battle she didn’t win.”

      The door to the room opened and the conversation quieted to icy silence. Martino entered the closet clad in a blue gown over white broadcloth hose. The blackamoor carried a tray on which rested a jug of port and four goblets fashioned of Venice glass—a gift to Roderigo from Solomon Aben Ayesh. Roderigo was proud that such royal items were in his possession.

      Martino placed the tray on the table and lifted the goblets with special care. Despite his Levantine ancestry—the black eyes, the hook of the nose—Martino insisted he was brought