The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman

is stubborn,” Dunstan answered.

      “You’ll not be happy until you die a martyr,” she said to Miguel.

      “That’s not so.”

      She leaned her face against Miguel’s chest and held him. “I’m so worried. We are all so vulnerable.”

      “Nothing will happen to me—or you—or any of us,” Miguel insisted. He broke away from her grasp. “I must practice my swordplay, Becca. My skill is my accursed weakness. Pray, don’t worry about me.”

      “Teach him well, Thomas,” she whispered to her cousin.

      Thomas whispered he would, then he and Miguel left. Rebecca waited until the both of them were out of sight, then wrapped her cloak snugly around her body.

      “The mission turns Miguel’s mind to marchpane,” she said to Dunstan. “He’s drunk from a single sip of success, but it’s not pride that motivates him. It’s acceptance by my father, by you as well, cousin. Raphael used to call Miguel the eternal puppy, so eager to please and trusting he is.”

      “At seventeen I, too, was eager,” Dunstan said. “Life shall polish his senses.”

      “If he lasts long enough to benefit from experience.” Her eyes hardened. “And age has nothing to do with idealism. I’m no older than he, yet I’m as cynical as an old man of forty. Cannot you stop him, Dunstan?”

      “No.”

      “Then may God bless and help him.”

      “How do you feel, Becca?”

      “I’ve been confined here for weeks,” she answered. “Much time I’ve spent in prayer, but it has provided me with little solace. Just lethargy. Grandmama says that idleness has made me slow-witted.”

      “Perhaps she compares you to me,” Dunstan said.

      Rebecca laughed. “Dear cousin, an intelligence of wit assumes a whit of intelligence. One must have the latter to have the former.”

      Dunstan frowned.

      “Idleness has not made you less clever,” he said. “But it has made you more vicious than ever.”

      Rebecca cocked her head and pouted. Marry, she was lovely, Dunstan thought.

      “Shall I take you to Cheapside?” he asked.

      “Mayhap you mean to bed?”

      Dunstan bit his lip to hold back a smile.

      “If that be your desire.”

      “Go home to your wife.”

      Dunstan sat down and cradled his chin in the palms of his hands. He looked so troubled, Rebecca thought, but in a rather childish way. As if his mother had taken away his sweetmeats.

      “What is it?” Rebecca asked.

      Dunstan sighed. “Grace has been so unresponsive since she has foaled. I don’t understand it. I give her gifts, I’ve hired for her more servants than wait upon the King of Scotland. I’ve indulged her every whim.”

      “You might consider giving her attention.”

      “I’m very attentive.”

      “Aye, to the scullery maid, the milkmaid, the chandleress—”

      “I’m not a monk, Rebecca. Do not lecture me.”

      She became silent at the tone of his voice.

      “Come, cousin,” he said. “Let us take a ride to the country.”

      She shook her head. It would be disastrous to fill him with false hopes. The sparks she’d once felt for him had died years ago. She’d been just a little girl, and Dunstan had been her porthole to the world. Things were different now. She was no longer dependent on him to teach her things. Still, Dunstan persisted in trying to revive the past.

      “The country would do your nerves well,” he begged.

      “I thank you, but no.”

      “You’re a stubborn twit of a wench,” Dunstan said angrily.

      “Or a wit of a wench,” she smirked.

      He grabbed her. “Remember, it was I who broke you in.”

      “I remember it well,” she said.

      “Then why have you turned so cold to me?”

      Not wanting another exhausting confrontation, she smiled and stroked his cheek.

      “You look handsome, Dunstan.” She tugged the corners of his mustache. “The color red suits you well.”

      “You taunt me, Becca.”

      “Not at all.”

      “Then bed me.”

      “Impossible.” She straightened out his ruff.

      “Why do you treat me as thus—the tongue of a kitten one moment, the bite of an asp the next?”

      “Blame it on the stars.”

      “You toy with my emotions.”

      “Dunstan,” she answered, “listen to me. Your cap houses one head, your codpiece the other. Think with the proper one. I’ve grown into a marriageable woman now. You must stop your ridiculous flirting.”

      “I love you.”

      “Would your ardor remain hot if I wore the battle scars that decorate Grace’s belly?”

      Slowly he released her from his grip. “I cannot stop thinking about you. You must marry before I do something … very foolish.”

      “You mean I must become pregnant, fat, and complacent. Then I will no longer be desirable.”

      Dunstan smiled sadly. “That is exactly what I mean.”

      “At the least, you’re truthful, if not honest.” She pushed him away. “Go home to Grace. Perhaps she’s not the wildest between the sheets, but indeed she’s served you well.”

      Rebuffed again, he stood, bowed, and doffed his hat, showing her the inside of his cap—a gesture of scorn. As he left, he turned to see her gathering almond blossoms in her skirt. Her black hair was loose and long, her ungloved hands so delicate and slender. He felt the sting and cursed what he once had, what he finally realized he had lost forever.

       Chapter 9

      Politics, politics, and more politics. It made Roderigo weary, and he almost wished himself a simple country doctor again. Putting down his quill, he reread the letter to Ferreira de Gama, admiring the strokes of his Italian hand, so rich with flourishes yet far easier to pen than the traditional secretary hand. Satisfied with the correspondence, he folded and sealed the letter, removed his spectacles and leaned back in his chair. Surrounded by solitude in his private closet, he tried to forget the discouraging words of his nephews. But they buzzed through the air like gnats.

      What if Essex were to intercept their correspondence with Philip? What would it mean?

      Disaster!

      Blank failure from your mind, Roderigo told himself. Just use caution and worry not. There would always be naysayers. Let them say nay, he would say yea.

      The fire needed to be stoked. Rather than call a servant, he got up and poked the logs himself. The embers erupted into flames, and the gust of heat warmed his stiff hands.

      Roderigo regarded the hearth in his closet. The Great Hall was outdated, being warmed by only a central pit. It was time to mason a fireplace there. One that would hold a majestic mantel … a mantel carved from the finest walnut. And the hearth should be chiseled from Sicilian marble—deep green preferably, to match the view of