The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman

away, daughter. I have no time for your foolishness.”

      Rebecca knew she should respect his wishes, but the last twenty-four days had been so confining. She envied her brother, off in Venice, her cousins gallivanting about. Only she and Uncle Hector had shown any respect for Raphael. True, she had been his betrothed, but it didn’t seem fair that only she should be cloistered. Rebecca argued,

      “Had you not told me I should have been born a man so I could have practiced your chosen profession?”

      “But you’re not a man.” Roderigo shook his head. “Aye, not a man at all.”

      “I’m better equipped than Ben,” Rebecca said.

      Roderigo glared at his daughter, angry at being confronted with the truth. Ben was an open wound in Roderigo’s heart. A wonderful boy, kind and good-hearted, but not as clever as Roderigo had wished. A curse to have a quick-witted daughter and a dull-witted son.

      “Even if I would have permitted you to accompany me under ordinary circumstances, I would not allow it now,” he said sternly. “You’re in mourning, Rebecca.”

      “I pray you, Father.” She sunk down on her knees and grabbed his hands, kissing his jeweled fingers. “I must leave here. I feel as if I’m being enveloped by the blackness I wear. I must escape or I’ll go mad. I beg of you.”

      Roderigo withdrew his hands and said, “Your playacting may have its desired effects on young hearts, Becca, but my ears are deaf to your antics.”

      Rebecca’s despair looked honest. Roderigo helped her to her feet and kissed her cheek. He said, “The Queen may have summoned me for reasons other than illness, little one. There is no place for women in politics.”

      “Then what is the Queen? A bear? A goose? Aye, she must be a dog because oft you call her a bitch—”

      Roderigo slapped her across the face. “Your tongue needs a knotting.”

      The slap was a light one—a warning that she’d gone too far. But she remained undeterred. “The Queen’s a woman. Does she not involve herself in politics?”

      “Bah,” Roderigo said. “You refuse to give up. Go away, silly Becca. You irritate me and I’m in no mood to be irritated.”

      “Please, Father,” she implored. “If you have no need of me, I shall parade my wares around the galleries. Handsome and rich courtiers abound. Many are single, many are very well regarded. Who knows who may buy the merchandise? How am I to find a husband if you keep me locked up in these walls? I ask you so little, Father. Cosset me this one time.”

      “You are the most pampered, spoiled, self-indulged young lady I have ever met!” Roderigo said harshly.

      But his eyes were smiling. She knew she had won.

      “Have your maids prepare you quickly,” he said. “If you’re not done by the time I depart, you shall be left behind.”

      Rebecca’s heart took off in wild anticipation. To visit London-town. What a glorious place it was in springtime. Full of excitement and bustle. Stalls packed with the latest wares, ladies on the arms of their lords, bedecked in the most fashionable of dress. New sights and smells. New faces. She wanted to throw herself at her father’s feet and kiss his shoes in gratitude. He was taking her away from these walls, this prison. She should have vowed never to anger him again, should have showered him with obsequious words of praise. Instead all she said was thank you, her voice surprisingly cool and detached.

       Chapter 10

      The Queen was in a foul mood, made even fouler the moment Dr. Lopez walked inside her bedchambers. Her Majesty’s personal sleeping closet, though modest in size, was opulent in style. The walls of the chamber were covered with silk cloth embroidered with the royal coat-of-arms. Velvet drapes sewn with silver and gold thread hung over two arched windows that provided the Queen with a view of the rose gardens. Her Majesty’s poster bed was carved from walnut, its mattress topped with down-filled counterpanes, and velvet and taffety pillows. Elizabeth sat on a throne, positioned to the left of her bed. Next to the royal chair stood a table upon which sat a porcelain water basin and pitcher, both leafed with gold.

      Lopez gave the obeisance of reverence—the customary bow given to a monarch—and started to advance, but the Queen commanded him to stop.

      “Who called him!” she demanded of the High Treasurer, Lord Burghley.

      “But madam, you are ill—”

      “You whale!” she screamed at Burghley. “You swine in black. You Puritan! Get him out of here!”

      Burghley shrugged haplessly at Roderigo and their eyes met. Not a true friend, Roderigo knew. Impossible to keep one’s neck whole and trust anyone in power. But at the moment he was an ally, their connection the hatred of Essex.

      “Go!” the Queen commanded Roderigo.

      Her nightdress was soaked with perspiration. Yet her teeth chattered. She adjusted her wig—locks of flaming red hair knotted formally and entwined with diamonds and sapphires—then threw her sable-trimmed robe over her chest.

      “You are flushed, madam,” Roderigo said. He dropped to his knees. “You are short of breath—”

      “I didn’t ask for your opinion on my state of health,” Elizabeth snapped. “Did not I order you to leave? Do you disobey—” She stopped her outburst and stared at Rebecca. “You brought your daughter to my bedchamber? Here? Now? Are you mad?”

      “Your Grace—” Roderigo stammered.

      “Why did you bring her?” the Queen demanded.

      “To aid—”

      “So you need assistance, Dr. Lopez?”

      “Why no, but—”

      “Stow it!” The Queen smiled, exposing blackened teeth. She tottered over to her bed and collapsed onto the mattress, allowing Burghley to draw her coverlets up to her chin. Her amber eyes danced playfully as she stared at Lopez’s daughter.

      “I will receive you now, dear girl,” she intoned sweetly.

      Rebecca felt dizzy. As she approached the Queen she realized that she was trembling from head to foot. Unsteady on her legs, she managed three deep curtsies.

      “You may rise,” Elizabeth announced as she held out her hand for Rebecca to kiss. “Don’t just stand there, Burghley, have someone bring the maiden a pillow so she may sit.”

      “Yes, madam.” Burghley bowed and left.

      “And you,” she said, turning to Roderigo. “What good can you do me?”

      “Whatever is in my power.”

      “Which isn’t much, is it?”

      “Too meager for Your Grace.”

      She coughed up a ball of sputum and spit it into a laced handkerchief. “Your flattery is revolting,” Elizabeth said. She gestured Lopez upward. “You may rise.”

      Roderigo stood but said nothing. A lady-in-waiting brought in a red pillow. She curtsied before the Queen, lay the cushion down.

      A fair little wench, Roderigo thought. Rosy and round … no more than Rebecca’s age? He had stiffened with lust that now repulsed him. God’s blood, where did the time go?

      He barked at the maiden, “Prepare for your Queen a posset of milk, honey, and ale immediately.”

      She nodded stupidly.

      “Go,” the Queen commanded her.

      She curtsied and scurried out the door.

      “Shake not like a cornered deer,” she told Roderigo.