Kitabı oxu: «The Quality of Mercy»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Lisbon, 1540

Chapter 1

London, 1593

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Historical Summary

Keep Reading

About the Author

Faye Kellerman booklist

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

As I see the first hint of sunlight, the death march begins. We advance toward the Terriero do Paco—the great city square adjacent to the Royal Palace on the seafront.

Leading the processional is Don Henrique—the Inquisitor General of Portugal by appointment of his older brother, His Royal Highness John the Third. Don Henrique is an ugly man—lean, with an avian nose, and black eyes set so deeply that the sockets appear hollow. His thick beard—a weave of bronze, copper, and iron—is meticulously shaped to a dagger point. His dress is appropriately august—official: floor-length black robe and cape, white clerical collar, and black trapezoidal hat. Dangling from his neck is his scallop-edged crucifix of gold, inset with topaz, lapis, aquamarine, sapphire, and topped with a finial of diamonds. A haughty man, Don Henrique always wears jeweled crosses. Gilt bible clutched to his breast, eyes fixed straight ahead, he presses on slowly but inexorably, prepared to carry out the work of his God.

Following the Inquisitor are four rows of black-garbed monks. Around their necks are unadorned crucifixes fashioned from the heavier base metals. Rigid and stone-faced, they carry black-covered bibles and hold aloft crosses and banners. They chant low-pitched dirges as they trudge forward on sandaled feet.

Behind the clergy are the royal officials and the black-hooded executioners—the secular arm of the law. Their ranks advance in taut, military fashion—arms swinging with pendular precision, not a boot out of step.

We are at the rear of the retinue. The victims—the wretches. We are heavily guarded and hold lighted tapers that spit fire into the early morning sky. Some of us endure the ordeal with stoicism—posture erect, gait sure-footed and strong. That is how I walk. Others about me seem stuporous, stumbling off-balance, as if being yanked forward by an invisible harness. The weakest weep openly.

The auto-da-fé—act of faith—is the day of reckoning for us. We’ve been convicted of violations of the Church. We walk forward, clearly identified for the onlookers; we wear the dreaded sambenito—the two-sided apron of shame imprinted with symbols corresponding to our infractions. Serious sinners like myself wear corazas—conical miters—as well.

Some are considered penitent and deemed reconcilable to the Church. They will gratefully accept the penalties meted out to them. The pettiest among them will be punished with fines, terms of forced servitude, or imprisonment. More serious transgressors will merit whipping or public shaming—being stripped to the waist and paraded around town to the derision and jeers of their countrymen. Wretches who committed grave infractions will be plunged into poverty, have all their worldly possessions confiscated by the Holy Office. These offenders will be stigmatized for generations, their descendants barred forever from entering the Holy Office, from becoming physicians, tutors, apothecaries, advocates, scriveners, or farmers for revenue. They will be forbidden to dress in cloth woven from gold or silver thread, wear jewelry, or ride on horseback.

But they are fortunate.

I, and others like me, are deemed impenitent. We hapless souls are guilty of the most odious heresies. My specific crime is Judaizing—practicing and professing the ancient laws of Moses rendered obsolete by their Jesus Christ. Once, Spain called me a converso—a Christian of Jewish bloodline. I was an overt Catholic, but secretly I practiced the old ways. My transgressions were discovered by a wanton woman. Now I am doomed.

Distinguished from the fortunates by our green tapers and dress, we—the relapsos—wear special fiery miters and the sambenito of death imprinted with the likeness of the Devil himself. Around his horned visage and pronged fork are leaping flames: the Hell that is to await us.

I spit on their stinking Christian ground. That’s what I think of their Hell.

This morning will be my last. Before the night is over, I will be sentenced to die without effusion of blood, their castigation derived from John 15:6—from the teachings of their Savior Himself: If a man abide not in me, he is cast forth as a branch and is withered and men gather them and cast them into the fire, and they are burned.

The dank ocean fog begins to melt, yielding to an opaline sky dotted with tufts of woolly cloud. At six in the morning the city bells ring out the signal and I shudder with dread. The cobblestone walkways begin to fill with austere gentlemen somberly wrapped in dark capes. They step with much haste, their servants at their heels. Ten minutes later the veiled women of the households emerge—wives, mothers, sisters, and daughters. Some of the women hold babies and toddlers, others drag older children, chiding them for slowness. The streets soon become a throng of bodies. In the center is this murderous tribunal—as poisonous as an asp. It undulates its way to the city square.

By the time the officials arrive at the Terreiro, most of the spectators have been positioned, either standing, or seated in the gallery benches that form a semicircle around the dais, the garrotes, and the stakes. In the foreground are the white-capped swells of the ocean. In the background stands the great palace, casting a deep shadow over the galleries.

We are ordered to stand up straight. A guard hits the woman next to me. She is eight months pregnant, younger than I, I think. Around seventeen. Her back is stooped from the weight of her fruit. I smile at her. Wet-eyed, she smiles back at me. Our eyes have told each to be strong.

As Don Henrique ascends to the black-draped podium, the noise of idle conversation softens, then finally quiets to silence. The Inquisitor stands immobile, his head bowed in meditation. The sun, now higher in the advanced morning sky, projects a metallic sheen onto the ground, gilding the Inquisitor. Tides yawn rhythmic, lazy growls. An uneasy calm has blanketed the air.

Suddenly, a mourner’s wail blasts through the square, reverberating against salty air and harmonizing with the ocean’s roar—the baritone summons of a sheep’s horn. The pregnant girl next to me jumps. I do nothing. The audience is cleaved in two by a red carpet, unfurled and smoothed by royal attendants.

King John and Queen Catalina—may they rot in Hell—enter the gathering, followed by their entourage. His Majesty’s porcine features are embedded in pillowy cheeks that are pink and pockmarked. He’s fair-complexioned, with a neatly trimmed but scant beard. His portly frame looks especially obese today, swaddled under layers of clothing. His sable collar, draped over a padded doublet of gold, frames his chin like the mane of a lion. Resting on his shoulders is a blue velvet robe secured by a clasp of jewel-encrusted animals linked together with braided silver. His round hose are pleats of blue and scarlet velvet and puffed out at the hip line. Hanging from his belt is a gold scabbard revealing the gem-studded handle of a broadsword. His stockings, no doubt made of pure silk, are obscured by high-polished black boots that end mid-thigh. On his head is perched the royal crown of the State.

The Queen is the daughter of the Emperor Charles the Fifth of Rome, granddaughter of Ferdinand and Isabella. Her facial features are small and pinched, her complexion tinged with olive. Her slender arms are hidden under full, maroon sleeves, but the bodice and stomacher of her dress reveal her pride, her vanity—a tiny waist that is rumored to be encircled easily by her husband’s thick hands. She wears a flowing skirt of black taffety overlaid with gold lace, and is crowned with a diamond and emerald tiara. A staunch Catholic, Catalina is the driving wind behind the Inquisition. She was inspired by the religious fervor of her late confessor, Frai Diogo da Silva—another pig.

The monarchs are led to raised thrones at the top of the galleries. As soon as they are seated, the Inquisitor lifts his head and extends his arms toward the rulers of the land.

“Mighty Sovereigns.” Don Henrique bows low. “King and Queen, Protectors of the True Faith. On a throne of velvet you sit most high. Justice and truth in God you preach as well as practice. In the great reign of King John the Third, the Savior shall once again witness purity of blood as we ferret out the foul stench that has infiltrated the rightful Church. Only under fair and impartial rulers such as yourselves, good King and Queen, will Catholicism be purified for true believers. A pure race—of pure, true Christians—to serve the most Holy One, Jesus Christ, the embodiment of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

King John and Queen Catalina—the swine—duly nod.

“As for the condemned, the wretched souls,” Don Henrique continues, “assuming they have souls, so beastly and dung-riddled are their filthy, ghastly undertakings …”

The crowd nods in agreement. A baby lets out a sudden shriek.

“Yea,” Henrique exclaims. “Yea … even an innocent babe cries out at the sight of the Devil himself, beseeching the Lord, ‘Most holy Savior! Protect my baptized soul!’”

The Inquisitor’s voice rings out. “Protect me against the disgusting, putrid pollution that has entered the most holy religion of God, subverting the good into evil.”

Don Henrique points to us—those sentenced to death.

“Damned ye be! Damnable are your crimes against man and against God. Ye are to consider the stake a most gentle taste of what awaits you once ye are in the grasp of the Devil. Ye shall drink boiling lead and eat molten brimstone for ale and food. Daily ye shall be skinned and burned, steamed in cauldrons of liquid fire. Your livers shall be fodder for the vulture, your hearts sustenance for the crow. Your entrails shall ye eat, the filth of your bowels shall ye breathe. Your eyes will be plucked out with glowing pokers as the Devil and his servants laugh at your wretched miseries.”

The Inquisitor holds his breath until his face is flushed, then lets out a chilling scream directed at the crowd.

“Ye think you are safe from the wiles of the Devil? Think again lest in your airs ye drop your shields and give space for the Devil to come and do his bidding.”

He returns his attention to us. I listen, but his words do not affect me. I’ve heard them many times before. Don Henrique clutches his heart and says,

“Satan—cursed be his name—has entered these filthy souls. But Jesus Christ, in His martyrdom, died for you. Died for your souls—all souls, the filthy with the pure. There remains hope for your souls in the life hereafter. Your earthly life is over. By your own stinking hand ye were sentenced, as God and the Church had tried to enter in life and failed. Perhaps ye shall see His wisdom now that death is upon your wretched bodies.

“Ye still have a chance! Ye still can make restitution to the cross by publicly confessing your errors and admitting them before man as well as God.”

Don Henrique lights a torch and hoists it into the air.

“Let the proceedings begin,” he says.

The ordeal will last all day. The lightest offenders are dealt with first. One by one they are summoned before the Inquisitor, insulted and cursed, then assigned their punishment by the secular arm. Maria Gomez is fined for appearing unveiled in public against the wishes of her husband. Joao Dias is whipped for theft. Salvador Guterrias is imprisoned for life for unnatural fornication with his wife. They should know the real truth. In the dungeon he told me that he had fornicated with animals, that they were more satisfying to him than his fat, stinking wife. Had that bit of knowledge come to the attention of the Inquisition, he would have been sentenced to die.

Name after name is called. We are forced to stand rigid during the proceedings. I worry about the girl next to me. I fear she will faint and then the guards will beat her. But she proves stronger than I had first thought. Yes, she sways on her feet, but her spine remains upright.

The tribunal continues past the noon hour and chews up the afternoon until dusk spreads over the square. No conversation in the audience is permitted. Children who violate the rule are immediately silenced—first verbally, then with a sharp slap. Roving guards maintain decorum with stern demeanors and, for those who have succumbed to dozing, a rap on the head with a stout staff.

Nightfall begins to darken the landscape, but the Inquisitor shows no signs of tiring. Do murderers ever tire of their lust for blood? As the torches are lit around the edges of the stage, Don Henrique points an accusing finger at the first of us condemned to death.

“Fernando Lopes!” he cries out. “Come forward.”

Lopes is an emaciated, hirsute man of thirty. His pale skin stretches over a large bony frame that once had been thick and muscular. I had known him before he was caught. He has degenerated very badly. His eyes, dulled by years of incarceration, seem mad now. They dart about aimlessly. His beard, once dark and handsome, is a gray nest of brambles, caked with spittle and blood. His hands are bound with leather straps, but his feet are untethered and bare. He is pulled forward by two guards.

“Thou miserable, filthy wretch of dung!” the Inquisitor says. “Thou hast been accused of relapsing!”

“No,” Lopes protests.

It is useless to deny, but Lopes will do it anyway. He is that kind of man.

“Quiet, sinner!” shouts the Inquisitor. “Thou knowest this to be truth! Thine own daughter confessed thy sins. Because her confessions were made under oath to the Holy Office, her life shall be mercifully spared. But thee … thou who wast warned in good faith—”

“But I have done nothing, Most Holy—”

“Still thou deniest what has been observed and verified by thine own daughter!” the Inquisitor screams. “Thou art to be eternally damned if thy confessions are not made before thy death. Make thy confessions, sinner!”

“But I have done nothing—”

Don Henrique addresses the audience, his expression incredulous. “What is to be done with this mongrel to save his soul? Must we show him the Devil’s way?”

Turning to one of the sentries, he orders, “Shave this New Christian!”

As two warders restrain Lopes, a third takes his torch and brings it to the struggling man’s beard. The whiskers catch fire and Lopes screams. I cannot watch anymore.

Henrique says, “Confess thy sins, wretched soul, and allow the Savior to take pity on you!”

“I confess! I confess!”

“Thou will confess in earnest?”

“Yes, yes, only please! …”

I force myself to glance at the wretched man. Lopes is on fire—a human torch. His shrieks curdle my blood.

“Douse the fire,” Don Henrique suddenly commands.

A bucket of water is splashed into Lopes’s face. He gasps for air, his face a grotesque melting candle of dripping water, burnt hair, and charred skin.

The Inquisitor accuses, “Thou changest linens on Friday. And thou concealest the treacherous act from thy servants by placing the dirty linens atop the clean, only to remove them before sunset on Friday. Admit it!”

Lopes says nothing.

“Still thou wadest in defiance!”

“No, Your Holiness,” Lopes squeaks.

“Speak up, Fernando Lopes!” the Inquisitor thunders. “Did thou change linens on Friday?”

Lopes nods.

“Dost thou admit to thy sin?’

“Yes, Your—” Lopes swallows. “Yes, Your Holiness.”

“And to thy sin of refraining from the consumption of pork?”

“But Your Holiness,” Lopes protests feebly, “pork makes me ill—”

“Still thou retainest the Devil’s obstinence?”

“Truly my stomach is ill-bred for its consumption.”

Don Henrique turns to the galleries.

“Must we continue listening to the lies of this filthy Jew? Must we prove our intent to save his soul once again? Light the beard.”

“No!” Lopes screams. “Yes, I confess. I did abstain from the consumption of pork.”

“Thou art a Judaizer. Admit it, Jew!”

“Yes, yes, it is true!”

“And who else was involved in thy crimes? Thy wife?”

“No! Verily, she is an honest Christian!”

“As thou art an honest Christian,” Don Henrique mocks.

“No, no! She knows nothing of my sins—”

“Admit it, dog! Thy wife is also a sinner—”

“But it is not true!”

“Light his beard.”

“No,” Lopes pleads with anguish. But this time he refuses to speak further. His cries are put to rest when again Don Henrique orders his beard to be drenched.

“Fernando Lopes,” says the Inquisitor, “dost thou repent for thy wicked ways?”

“Yes,” Lopes whispers.

“Dost thou embrace the cross and pledge an oath of faith that Jesus Christ is thine only chance for salvation in the Hereafter?”

“Yes.”

Don Henrique walks over to the condemned man and holds out his crucifix.

“Embrace the cross, Fernando.”

Lopes does as ordered.

“Pledge thy faith to Christ the Lord,” demands the Inquisitor.

“I pledge my faith to Christ the Lord.”

“That He is thy Savior.”

“He is my Savior.”

“And thy salvation in the Hereafter.”

“And my salvation in the Hereafter.”

“Thou art a wretched sinner, but thou dost make penitence on this day for all thy previous sins.”

“I am a wretched sinner, but I do make penitence on this day for all my previous sins.”

“And pray for the mercy of Christ.”

“And pray for the mercy of Christ.”

“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”

“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”

“Fernando Lopes,” cries the Inquisitor, “for thy free confessions, thou warrant mercy. Thou shalt be relaxed to the secular arm for punishment, but shalt be garroted in a swift manner as a reward for thy free confessions and thy pledge of oath to the True Faith.”

The guards unbound the prisoner’s limbs and lead the limp, burnt man over to an open iron collar attached perpendicularly to a metal post. As the collar is clamped shut around his scrawny neck, Lopes begs for his life, but his whines are cut short at the first turn of the screw.

The collar tightens. Lopes gasps and clutches at the metal band constricting his throat.

The screw is turned again.

Lopes’s pasty face takes on the blue tinge of strangulation.

The screw makes a final revolution, and Lopes’s arms, legs, and bowels relax.

The crowd roars at the sight of the lifeless body.

A few minutes later a warder loosens the screw and removes the collar. Lopes tumbles to the ground, a pile of dead bone and skin. The body is dragged by the hair to a pyre. After securing the corpse to the stake, the sentry notices that the head is dangling precariously from its broken neck. He grabs a handful of Lopes’s hair and ties it around the stake. The head is now sufficiently upright, dead eyes gaping at the galleries. Satisfied, the sentry walks away to join his ranks.

The corpse will be burnt at the conclusion of the ceremony—the grand finale that serves as a caveat for those who contemplate straying from the catechisms of the Church.

Don Henrique turns his attention to the woman next to me. She, like me, is a relapso—a converso found guilty of Judaizing. She admits her guilt freely. She begs for another chance, not for her, but for her unborn child. Her pleas, though acknowledged, merit her no special favors. She makes a final effort to save her baby. Let her be punished by death, but cannot the tribunal wait until after the baby is born?

The answer is no. She is garroted after reaffirming her faith to the cross.

Three more men are placed in the iron collar—two for Judaizing, one for sodomy with his stableboy. Two more women. Another man. Another woman. Deep into the night until Don Henrique eyes the last victim—me.

I am nineteen, with gray eyes that used to shine like newly pressed coins. Once my hair was beautiful. It is now a cap of untamed dusty curls that fall past my waistline. My face is covered with sores, my lips cracked open, oozing blood. My teeth are gone, having been rooted out with tongs as punishment for biting a jailer. My nude gums are uneven nodules of angry red flesh.

A guard gags me. I fight viciously against leather restraints that bind my arms and legs. Two guards are holding me in place, but the sweat on their faces bespeaks the intensity of my struggles.

“Teresa Roderiguez!” the Inquisitor announces. “Filthy wretch of a daughter. Have thee anything to say in behalf of thy defense?”

I nod.

“Remove the morgaza,” orders Don Henrique.

As one of the sentries pulls off the gag, I yell,

“A pox on thee!”

Don Henrique stiffens with rage. I am glad. He shouts, “Wretched, filthy dog! Save thy soul!”

I spit in his direction.

The Inquisitor raises his fist and cries, “Thou shalt burn in Hell continuously lest ye make confessions!”

I say, “I piss on thy confessions!” I spit again.

“Putrid agent of the Devil—”

“I am a Jew! I shall die a Jew!”

“Aye, the witch dost admit her heresy!” Don Henrique says to the audience. He faces me. “Thy ghastly, bull-dunged body shall be a playmate for the Devil lest thou make thy confessions to Christ—”

“I shit on thy Christ! Shma Yisroel, Adonai—”

“Silence! Gag the filth!”

The rag is stuffed back into my mouth.

“Light the dog’s feet!”

A torch is held under my soles. The flames tickled, then burned the callused flesh, causing it to blister and wrinkle like roasted chestnuts. I scream. The agony causes me to buck harder than before.

“Have thee something to say now, Teresa Roderiguez?”

I nod.

“Remove the morgaza,” the Inquisitor says.

A sentry sighs and pulls the rag out of my mouth.

I scream, “Shma Yisroel, Adonai—”

“Replace the morgaza! For thy obstinance, bitch, shalt thou burnest. To the quemadero shalt thou be placed alive, and there shalt thou be raped by the Devil for eternity!”

The guard pulls me to the stake. I fight him, attempt to land blows and kicks with my bound arms and legs.

It is useless.

As I thrash, they strap me onto the pyre and the Inquisitor offers his torch to King John. His Royal Highness rises, straightens his cape, then takes the arm of his Queen. Both monarchs step down from their thrones and, heavily guarded, walk to the pyre where I am jerking and twitching. The torch passes from the Inquisitor to the King, then again from the King to the Queen. With the help of her husband, the Queen grazes the torch against the bottom layer of the pyre and the wood erupts into flames.

As the fire creeps upward, toward my feet, the crowd begins to stir. Smoke soon envelops me, the hot breath of the stake erupting into an open conflagration of skipping plumes. I howl in pain, then cry out a single word—Adonai.

I hear the crackle of flames, the screams and cheers of the crowd, the bleating of goats. I smell my own burnt flesh …

I am going.

I am gone …

Chapter 2

As the last bits of dirt were shoveled over the grave, William Shakespeare arose and dusted clots of mud and loose earth from his stockings. He looked down at the fresh soil, still stunned by the sudden loss of his mentor, his best friend, Henry Whitman. What villain had done such a foul deed, slaughtered a man on the open road? Shakespeare shuddered as he pictured Whitman dying in that muddy sheep’s cot, his bones cold and stiff from the chilled northern air. The body had been found by a shepherdess, the rapier still embedded in Harry’s back. It had pierced his heart.

Dear God have mercy upon his soul and rest be to his ashes.

Harry’s demise. A surprise attack from a hidden enemy or a madman? The culminating act of a heated quarrel? Always clever—even when sorely drunk—Harry had been an expert improviser, had talked his way out of many tense situations.

A good player must be creative, Harry had told him once. If the book is less than perfect, it’s up to the man on stage to make amends.

Poor Harry. Performing his final scene without an audience. The ultimate insult for an actor. In life, periods of solitude were blessings. Dying alone was a bitter curse.

Rubbing his gloved hands together and tightening his cloak, Shakespeare stared off into the gray landscape. The cemetery was four miles from Bishopsgate, an hour’s walk from London—a long walk when the heart was heavy with sadness. He turned to his right and spotted an incoming funeral train about two hundred yards to the north—a long line of mourners holding banners, torches, and scutcheons. Squires, bearing the family’s coat-of-arms, were followed by blue-gowned servants. Evidence of a man of much means: the deceased had been a gentleman. The casket, draped in black, plodded through the fog as if it had been cast into choppy waters. The funeral party soon came into sharper view. Beyond the staff there were very few mourners. Very few had shown up at Whitman’s funeral as well. A day for small funerals.

The incoming party passed to the right of Harry’s grave, steadily crunching wet grass underneath leather soles. Shakespeare returned his eyes to the grave, almost expecting Whitman to pop his head up and claim his entire demise was jest. When that didn’t happen, he began to walk away.

He hadn’t gone more than ten feet when he felt the presence of eyes upon him—an eerie, intangible touch that crept down his spine and grabbed his legs. He spun to his left, in the direction of the gentleman’s funeral, and saw a motionless, veiled woman appearing to stare at him. Transfixed by her image—a black icon enveloped by shimmering air—he stared back. Delicately, she lifted her veil and regarded him further. She was young, Shakespeare noticed immediately, and beautiful. Her eyes were steely gray, yet burned like coals afire. Her complexion was flawless—milky white with a hint of blush on high arches of cheekbone. Her lips were full and slightly parted, emitting small wisps of warm breath. Her brow and most of her hair were shadowed by hat and veil, but several loose tresses streamed alongside her cheeks and gleamed as black and silky as the fur of a witch’s cat. Statuesque but hazy, as if chiseled out of the clouds that surrounded her, she seemed but a dream.

“Rebecca,” a distant voice said.

The woman didn’t respond.

The voice suddenly took the shape of a man. An elderly gentleman with a sizable belly and a comely red beard, dressed in a knee-length physician’s gown. The cloths of his vestments were not wool or linen, but silk and velvet, the leather of his boots polished to a high shine.

“Rebecca,” he repeated. “Grandmama needs your help.”

Immediately, the woman lowered her veil and caught up with the rest of her party.

Shakespeare felt a tap on the shoulder and jumped. It was only Cuthbert. His eyelids drooped with fatigue, his hazel eyes were red and watery. Like his famous brother, Richard Burbage, Cuthbert was well developed, with thick lips, high cheekbones, and a bulbous nose. The main difference between the two was their voices—Richard’s was deep and melodious, Cuthbert’s thin and tinny. He wasn’t much older than Shakespeare, yet he always walked with a stoop reserved for men twice his age. He placed his hand gently on Shakespeare’s shoulder.

“Your roving eye shows no respect for the solemnity of the occasion,” Cuthbert said kindly.

“Reproach me not,” said Shakespeare. “It was she who engaged me.”

“Who was she?” asked Cuthbert.

“I know not.”

“Save that she is beautiful.”

Shakespeare smiled. “My eye isn’t alone in its wanderings.”

“I admit it to be the truth,” Cuthbert said. “She was a lovely spirit amid all this death.” He paused, then said, “Harry’s death is a great loss for all of us. But I know what Whitman meant to you, Willy. I’m sorry.”

Shakespeare said, “Whitman was a drunk, a braggart, and a carouser. He constantly floundered in a sea of mischief, coming periously close to drowning until someone—usually me—had the decency to rescue him. This time I wasn’t there. Whitman was a millstone about my neck.”

“You don’t mean that,” Cuthbert said.

“Don’t I?”

“You’re angry with him.”

“How can you be angry at a corpse?”

But he was angry. Enraged! And guilty! If only he had been there. In the early days it had been the other way around—Harry the nursemaid, he the baby. Shakespeare had been nineteen at the time, void of any marketable craft. A convicted poacher, he’d been expelled from his native shire of Warwick because he hadn’t been able to pay the stiff fine and had been too full of pride to ask his in-laws for help. He packed a bag and bid good-bye to Anne and the children, swearing to send them all his money just as soon as he was hired by a troupe. But after living on the streets for six months, his only income pennies for lyrics he’d written for troubador songs, Shakespeare had become despondent. No one would hire him as a player, no one was interested in reading his playbooks.

It had been desperation that made him seek out Whitman. The famous actor, though known to be moody and drink in excess, had sudden bouts of unexplained generosity. After one of Whitman’s productions, Shakespeare approached him, fully expecting to be rebuffed. Though there was no room in the fellowship for another itinerate player, Whitman agreed to read Shakespeare’s play.

And read it Harry did, grunting, muttering to himself as he sorted through the uneven scraps of paper on which the lines were written. Shakespeare couldn’t afford anything as luxurious as unused paper. When Harry had finished, he calmly handed Shakespeare back his play and asked what he knew about horses. That was it. Not a single comment on his work, just what did he know about horses.

Shakespeare told Harry that he knew much about grooming—a bald lie—and was hired on the spot. His first real work in London—tending the horses of the gentleman playgoers. He’d been so grateful to Harry for the opportunity.

A few days later Shakespeare burned the book. It remained forgotten until six months later. Harry had been voicing one of his many soliloquies on stage when he started to improvise using lines from Shakespeare’s ill-fated play. The rogue had committed the book to memory as he read it! Afterward, in a tavern, of course, Harry begrudgingly gave Shakespeare a word or two of credit for the well-received lines he’d orated.

Shakespeare looked back at Harry’s grave. Only Whitman’s widow and her parish priest remained, the other members of the fellowship having already begun the walk back to London. Cuthbert followed Shakespeare’s eyes and said,

“Poor Margaret. What will she do? We’ll have to help.”

“Such were my intentions,” Shakespeare said.

“What have you in savings?”

“Four crowns—two are in my doublet.”

“Good luck at the cockfights over the year?”

“Not so,” Shakespeare replied. “I’ve simply been saving my coins. Anne should lack nothing.”

“What a liar you be,” said Cuthbert, grinning. He quickly added: “A statement made in jest, dear cousin.”

“I see you value your ballocks.” Shakespeare laughed. “In truth, perhaps a bet or two did turn up sweet. Now, how does a gentleman offer the widow money without offending her honor? Margaret’s a woman sated in pride.”

“Yes, a problem.” Cuthbert broke into a series of spasmodic coughs. “Then this is what you do. You must lie—in good faith, of course.”

“How so?”

“Tell her the money was owed to her husband. He had lent you the pounds when your debts mounted, and had never told her lest he sully your image in her gentle mind. If it pleases her, she may take her just due.”

“She won’t take my money.”

“You approach her with a humbleness of tone, yet insistence in your voice. The hooded eyelid, a grave downturn of the lip. Marry, Will, you’re a player! Use your skills and convince the poor widow.”

“Aye, a player I am,” Shakespeare said. “But she was the superior player’s wife.”

Cuthbert coughed and nodded. “True. But now she’s stricken with grief. Her finely honed senses have been dulled.” He nudged Shakespeare in the ribs. “The priest is leaving her alone. You have opportunity. Make the most of it.”

Shakespeare nodded and approached the grieving widow. She was a tall woman with colorless eyes, the lids red and puffy with sorrow. Because her veil was up, the frosty air had bitten raw her cheeks and nose. She held in her hand a sprig of rosemary which she fingered absently.

Such pain etched on her face, he thought. It served to increase his own.

“William,” she said quietly.

“Margaret.” He kissed her on the cheek then lowered his head.

“Harry was a good soul, wasn’t he?” she asked.

“Yes, he was.”

“I loved him, Willy.”

“I loved him as well,” Shakespeare said softly. “He was my brother in spirit if not in flesh. I’ll miss him dearly.”

“So will we all,” Margaret said. “At least he’s not departed in vain. Nine living souls will attest to that.”

“How are the children faring?”

Margaret sighed. “Their father’s death leans heavily on their legs, but with God’s help they shall keep their balance.”

“May God shine his love on them.”

“Thank you,” Margaret whispered.

Shakespeare held her hands. Margaret had always impressed him as being a strong woman. She had to be. Nine children and a husband who was never home. But Shakespeare never heard her complain. Harry had always supported his family quite well.

Shakespeare cleared his throat. “I have something I must give you,” he said.

“I’m not in want of anything.”

“Nor do I claim you to be. I simply want to pay you back for money I borrowed from Harry.” Shakespeare reached into his doublet and took several gold coins. “It’s long overdue.”

Margaret said, “Harry did not make it a habit to lend money, Will. You, more than anyone, should be aware of that. Ye men! Cuthbert had tried the same tactic and was no more successful.”

The scoundrel, Shakespeare thought. Instructing me, knowing all the while I would fail. He sighed to himself.

“I pray you, Margaret,” he said. “Take it so I may do honor to my mentor’s widow. The favor will be yours.” He extended his hand toward her. “Please.”

Slowly, Margaret reached for the crowns, then retracted her hand. “If I’m in need, dear Will, I’ll call you. For now, let’s leave the matter untouched. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Shakespeare stuffed the coins back into his doublet.

“Aye, such times we live in, Will,” Margaret said, walking away from the grave. “An honest man cannot traverse the land without fear of the bastard highwaymen.”

Shakespeare said, “Were I to find the cutpurse responsible for this act, I’d give him his entitlement. Bait for the unchained bear would be an appropriate death.”

“Aye, make it slow and painful,” Margaret added.

“And gruesome.”

Margaret laughed hollowly. “We’re as bad as heathens. Christians do not engage in this kind of speech.”

Shakespeare said nothing.

“Aye, Will, you are as Harry. Incorrigible.” Margaret sighed. “How I yearn for more innocent days.”

“An illusion, Margaret.”

“Not so,” she protested. “My grandmother recalls such times.”

Shakespeare didn’t answer.

“And you think this not so?”

“Memories of the elderly are bathed in sunlight—exceedingly bright yet very indistinct.”

Margaret shook her head.

“So I shall remain wistful and labor in my delusion,” she said. “It’s a terrible lot to be a player. Traveling on the road, dependent on the kindness of the hostler, alert and watchful lest you fall prey to the cozening knave that roams the country’s highways. If you were sound of mind, Will, you’d go back to Anne and the children and return to the occupation of your father.”

Shakespeare shook his head.

“Go home to your family, Will. Go home and make peace.”

“My home is here with the fellowship, Margaret,” Shakespeare said. “I’d be one foot in the grave if I gave up the theater. Anne knows that. I cannot live without the stage, and she refuses to uproot. So we both act as we must. The great Guild of Whittawer will have to go on without me.” He smiled. “Heaven only knows how it has endured this long in my absence.”

They walked a few more feet in silence. The wind shot chilled arrows that pierced their lungs.

Shakespeare said, “Margaret, why did you bury Harry outside of London instead of in his family land up North?”

Margaret turned white. “Harry mentioned his family to you?”

“Very briefly. He claimed he was born of displaced nobility. But then again, he claimed diverse things, many of which were products of a prevaricating mind.”

“Harry had kinsmen up North,” Margaret said. “But they are not family. You see how many have come to his funeral today.”

“Yet he was visiting them when he was killed,” Shakespeare said.

Margaret didn’t respond. She wrapped herself in resentment and wore it as visibly as her cloak. She bit her thumbnail, then said,

“Who will find my husband’s murderer, Willy?”

It was Shakespeare’s turn to be silent.

“None of Harry’s true brothers have offered to seek vengeance for him,” Margaret said. “My husband’s soul cannot rest in eternity until the slayer is brought to justice.”

“I’m aware of that, Margaret.”

“When you had no one to turn to, twas Harry—”

“I know,” Shakespeare interrupted. “What would you like me to do?”

“Find this fiend,” Margaret announced.

She stated it so simply, as if it were the only agenda open to him.

“I suppose I could take a brief trip up North,” Shakespeare said. “Make a few inquiries … Although without Harry, the fellowship is sadly lacking competent players. And the theaters have just reopened—”

“If the fellowship can go on without Harry, production can proceed without you. Find my husband’s murderer!”

Shakespeare said he’d try, though his stomach had become knotted at the thought. He would depart in a few days.

Margaret whispered breathlessly, “Hints are that the killer is well versed in the Italianate style of dueling. The rapier’s thrust cut deep into Harry’s heart.”

“Then the murderer must have been very adroit,” noted Shakespeare. “Harry was a fine swordsman.”

“Yes,” Margaret answered in a small voice. “Precaution, Will. Be clever or you’ll find your fortune as Harry’s.”

“I shall step lightly,” Shakespeare said. For a moment, he wondered how she had ensnared him to do her bidding. But deep in his heart he knew that she really didn’t talk him into anything. Shakespeare wanted to avenge his mentor. He also knew that had the situation been reversed, Harry would have done the same for him. “If I find this Hell-rot scum, I shall be well prepared.”

“And I shall love you all the more for my Harry’s revenge.” Margaret’s face had become alive with the desire for retribution. “God bless you, Will Shakespeare. An honorable man, you are.” Margaret kissed his cheek and dropped his hand. “I must rejoin my children and friends. You’ll keep me informed?”

“Of everything I disclose.”

“I wish you luck, William.” She let down her veil, tightened her cloak, and hurried away.

Cuthbert waited for Shakespeare at the mouth of the open road. The overcast had started to lift, giving way to the green velvety hillside, a smooth verdant wave speckled with silver brush, ancient oaks, wildflowers, and the white nap of unshorn sheep. Taking a deep breath, he tried to exhale slowly, but instead let out a hacking cough. He cleared his lungs, spat out a large ball of phlegm and flexed his stiffened fingers. His eyes swelled with water and he blew his red, round nose.

Bells from the church tower rang out the time—eleven-thirty by the clock. Burbage was well aware of the hour before it was announced. His stomach had told him it was time to take dinner. So late, he thought. And the sets still needed repairs. With Whitman’s funeral and so little time to prepare, the production would be a disaster! The troupe could no longer afford to play half-empty galleries. Not with the new batch of costumes recently purchased—genuine furs for the king’s robes. Such extravagance his brother, Richard, insisted upon. And the new swords! Not to mention the two new hired men and another member demanding to be a sharer.

Then there was the constant threat of Black Death. The outbreaks of plague had subsided long enough to allow the Master of the Revels to reopen the theaters. But if this year’s epidemic proved to be as deadly as last year’s, the theater doors again would be locked. Gods, would that be calamitous financially!

Shakespeare caught up with him and the two of them began their journey back to Southwark just across London Bridge.

“You seem lost in thought, friend,” Shakespeare said.

“The business of providing pleasure to others,” Cuthbert answered. “No matter. How’d you fare with the widow?”

Shakespeare looked impish. “Margaret will be well provided for.”

“Good,” sighed Cuthbert. “The lady always did prefer you to me.”

“My waifish eyes, dear cousin. They tug at the heartstrings.”

“Or leer at the chest,” mumbled Cuthbert. “Depending on your mood.”

“She refused my crowns, my friend—no surprise, eh? But did agree to take them should there be a time of need.”

“Fair enough.”

Shakespeare stopped walking, “Cuthbert, who would do this to Harry? Yes, someone might filch Harry’s purse as he lay sleeping off one of his drunken states. That has happened before. But murder him? He had not a true enemy this side of the channel.”

“Vagabonds knew nothing of his kindness.”

“True—if his murderer was a highwayman …”

“And you think it might be someone else? Someone he knew?”

“I’ve no pull to one theory or the other.”

Cuthbert said, “There is the possibility that Harry became drunk and a foolish fight ensued after words were spoken in choler. Harry often spoke carelessly when drunk.”

“Yet he was equally quick with the apologies,” Shakespeare said. “Besides, he died in an open field and not on the floor of a tavern.”

Alone, Shakespeare thought.

“He could have been moved to the field,” Cuthbert said.

“A lot of bother,” Shakespeare said.

Cuthbert agreed. He asked,

“What about the coins he was carrying? Margaret made mention that Harry had pocketed several angels before he left for his trip up North. They were gone when the body was discovered. Harry was robbed, Willy.”

“Or Harry spent the money before he was murdered,” Shakespeare said.

Cuthbert conceded the point. They resumed walking. It seemed to Shakespeare that Harry could have easily done in an ordinary highwayman itching for a scrap. Whitman was a deft swordsman. But was he caught off guard? Had the attacker been a fiercesome enemy or a madman possessed by an evil spirit? Shakespeare stepped in silence for several minutes, brooding over the fate of his partner and friend. Again Cuthbert placed a hand on his shoulder. He said, softly,

“What’s the sense, Will? Harry is dead and gone. But we are still among the living. We’ve a performance at two and our stomachs are empty.”

“I’ve not an appetite,” Shakespeare said. “But a pint of ale would well wet my throat.”

Cuthbert coughed.

“And yours, also,” added Shakespeare. “Have you seen an apothecary about the cough?”

“Aye.”

“And what did he say?”

“Quarter teaspoon dragon water, quarter teaspoon mithridate, followed by a quart of flat warmed ale. If it worsens, perhaps more drastic measures need to be taken.”

“What kind of measures?”

“He made mention of leeching.”

They were silent for a moment.

“Nothing to be concerned about,” Cuthbert said.

“Good.” Shakespeare paused, then said, “I must go up North for a few weeks.”

Cuthbert stopped walking. “Up North? Alone? Are you mad?”

“Far from it.”

“Though I mean no disrespect for the deceased, we are already one player short, Will.”

“Margaret asked it of me,” Shakespeare said. “And I would have done it anyway. I owe it to Harry.”

“A minute ago you called him a millstone around your neck.”

“He deserves peace in eternity,” Shakespeare said. His eyes suddenly moistened. “He visited me in my dreams last night, lectured me in the proper art of projection …” Shakespeare suddenly covered his eyes with his hands. “His restless soul hangs about me like a nagging wife. The Devil with it! I must avenge him, Cuthbert, or I’ll have no peace of mind.”

“But—”

“Save your breath.”

Cuthbert knew arguing with him was useless. Shakespeare and Whitman—both mules. He said, cautiously, “Perhaps the fellowship can handle your absence financially, if it’s only for one week—”

“Give me two weeks. The open roads may be poor.”

Cuthbert sighed. “Two weeks, then. I pray you, Willy, no more than two weeks.”

Shakespeare agreed, then added, “Much can happen in two weeks.”

Chapter 3

Judging from the number of people, the funeral party was an immense success. It was only six in the evening, but scores of sweating bodies had already filled the Great Hall of the Ames’s manor house. Most were respected commoners—wealthy business merchants, gold traders, and local statesmen—but some gallants and important nobility had elected to make an appearance. The great ladies gossiped, huddling around the lit wall torches or floor sconces so they could be observed and admired under proper lighting. They fanned themselves, studied the crowds, the dress of those without title, wondering if the commoners were violating any of the sumptuary laws. Other wives stood against the black-draped walls and sneered at their husbands stuffing their mouths with food. Two dozen rows of banqueting tables were piled high with delicacies—milk-fed beef stewed with roots, venison in plum sauce, trays of poultry, platters of pheasants roasted over the open pit in the center of the room. The hall had become stifling, choked with the smell of perspiration and the heat of cooking.

But Rebecca Lopez took no notice. Head down, she spoke to no one, and no one dared address her. She was the fiancée of the deceased, Raphael Nuñoz, and as such, entitled to her grief in solitude. She had chosen a spot under a drafty window at the far end of the Great Hall and remained alone, her aloofness constructing an invisible barrier that kept the guests away. Frosty air blew upon her neck and shoulders, and she was shivering—the only one in the room to do so. Her mother had offered her a blanket, but Rebecca had declined. She made no further effort to become warm.

Yesterday she’d been numbed by what had happened. She hadn’t been able to feel cold, heat, or pain. But now all she felt was anger and a fervent wish that all the commotion would end soon. Among all of them—the so-named mourners—not a tear had been shed. Sheer hypocrisy, she thought. They come not to console, but instead to gorge themselves or chat idly about the weather. Let them take a stroll if the chill occupies their thoughts so. Let them leave, so the air inside will clear of their foul odor and overbearing perfume.

Through her long black veil she eyed Hector and Miguel steeped in sadness. They were large men made small by black sorrow. Her heart ached for them—father and brother—so deep was the intensity of their loss. Rebecca remembered the swift death of Raphael’s mother, Judith. She’d been no more than a little girl at her mother’s side, but nevertheless recalled the ashen face, the bloody legs with a dead child between them. The memory had haunted her for years. Now, ironically, she was thankful that Judith had died and been spared the pain of seeing her firstborn dead.

How she wished she could hold Hector and Miguel in her arms, sing them sweet lullabies and take away the anguish. But to perform such an act of solace was to confess that they were more affected than she by Raphael’s death. Even though this was true, she didn’t dare admit it.

Raphael. Since she had to marry—and he had been forced to wed as well—their union would have been as good as any. He’d been a sweet, sweet lover with a randy laugh, very adventurous under the sheets. But there had been another side to him, dark and brooding. Unlike Miguel, Raphael had a terrible temper, and though he had never struck her, he’d come close more than once. Rebecca learned early in their relationship to stop asking him questions about the mission. Her betrothed, always burdened by worldly matters.

Though Rebecca mourned his death, she was relieved by the aborted nuptials. Unlike most of the girls her age, it had never been her dream to marry, to become the perfect English gentlewoman. All she could see was young girls turning older than their years, weighted down by pregnancy that turned into obesity. Fat and saggy, disgusting in the eyes of husbands who leered and groped after smooth, supple bodies. And the bairns, crying and wailing, drooling cheesy spit.

And then there was the permanently etched fear of ending up as had Judith—the women and girls staring at her corpse.

Rebecca knew her reprieve from wedlock was temporary. It was only a matter of time before Father replaced Raphael with another—Miguel, most likely. Once married, she would have to obey her husband without question. It was her duty. But for now, unexpectedly released from marital obligations, she felt like a wild horse destined for domestication but suddenly let loose instead. Freedom snipping away her feelings of numbness, of sadness. Obscene as it was, she couldn’t help herself.

Rebecca adjusted her coif, looked around the room and saw Lady Marlburn stuffing her corpulent body with comfits, licking sticky sugar off of her sausage-shaped fingers. Rebecca had been periodically observing her for an hour. The lady had consumed ample quantities of capon, duck, veal, moorcock, pigeon, and pickled eggs, washing it all down with tankards of ale. She’d be heavily purging herself tonight. The chamberpot would be filled with her putrid stools.

Swine, they were. Keeping their close stools next to their bedposts, smelling the fetid stench as they slept. It was Rebecca’s grandam who insisted that the pots be kept away from the bedchambers and the kitchen.

And they have the audacity to call us swine.

Thoughts of her grandam filled Rebecca with warmth. Though Rebecca loved her mother—she was a dutiful daughter—it was the old woman who had always been the main recipient of her affections. The hag, as she was called by everyone else, was a skeletal witch, crippled severely by disfigured feet. Toothless and wrinkled, she rarely talked to anyone, and when she did, it was usually nonsense. People thought her a bit daft, but Rebecca knew she spoke foolishly to keep people from prying into her past life—years that even Rebecca was not privy to. When they were alone, Grandmama revealed a remarkable acumen, a steadfast calm in the face of crisis, and an inexhaustible patience. Grandmama had taught her to read Hebrew, had taught her much about the old religion through tales and stories. Young and old—confidantes—each listening to the dreams of the other.

Rebecca was awakened from her reverie by the harsh cackle emitted from Lady Marlburn. As the great dame laughed, layers of chins slapped against her chest. Her breasts were enormous, tumbling out of a too-tight bodice. Her pomander was entrapped in cleavage—the sickly sweet-smelling orb peeking out of the gorge that separated mountainous mounds of flesh. Lord Marlburn stood dutifully at her side, nodding at the appropriate moments, sneaking sidelong glances at Rebecca.

The “great” lord and lady, her father forced to show them respect because they were nobility.

A pox on them.

Rebecca remembered too clearly Lord Marlburn’s heavy arms holding her down, the thick hand clamped tightly over her mouth. His prick, stubby and crusted with scum, pushing deeply into her body. His stench and sweat dripping on her freshly washed skin. When he was done, the previously lust-blinded lupine face had become sheepish. He had cried to her, begging her forgiveness at what he had thought was her deflowering. His weeping had made her even more sick and contemptuous. It had been simply her time of the month; she hadn’t been a virgin for two years.

But she had told him nothing.

Gifts soon followed—expensive bolts of cloth, bracelets studded with jewels, rare edibles—citrus from southern Italy, asparagus from Holland, chocolate from Spain. He had tried to speak with her, but she feigned illness, knowing he was mad with worry that she was carrying his bastard child. More gifts. More and more.

What a fool!

Looking at the two piggish bodies, Rebecca wondered how he could possibly mount and penetrate her when their torsos were wrapped in so many layers of fat. She tried to imagine their humping—two mastiffs pawing at each other, huffing and puffing.

She hated them! At the moment she hated everyone.

From the shield of her veil she noticed Dunstan approaching her. Her cousin was handsome. Tall, well built, his muscular thighs bulging under his stockings. His chest seemed massive under his peasecod doublet. His hair was long and sleek, his beard midnight black. A diamond winked from his left earlobe. As he neared, Rebecca picked up her head and nodded an acknowledgment.

“How are you faring?” he asked, standing at her side.

“Worry not for my sake,” Rebecca said. “Instead worry for Hector and Miguel. I fear that Raphael’s death will leave them weak with grief.”

Dunstan sighed and nodded.

“And what about your grief?”

“I’ll survive.”

“Did you love him?” Dunstan asked.

“He was my betrothed, Dunstan. Of course I loved him.”

Dunstan touched his earring with his forefinger and thumb.

“And did you love him even as he bedded your chambermaid?”

Rebecca faced him. “You’re despicable.”

“Admit it,” Dunstan said with a half smile. “You feel relieved.”

Rebecca turned away, blushing at the truth. Carelessly, she said, “Raphael’s death leaves us in a ticklish position, does it not?”

Dunstan whipped his head around and whispered, “Quiet. We’re among strangers.”

“My father talks freely,” Rebecca said. “He’s often unaware who is listening.”

“God’s sointes, Rebecca, keep your voice down!” Dunstan reprimanded her. “Your father is discreet because he trusts you and speaks unmolested in your presence. Don’t make an ass out of him—or us. As comfortable as we live, we’re not immune from the whims of our rulers.”

Rebecca knew that to be the truth. England’s religious tolerance could quickly be replaced by the Queen’s sudden death or military mutiny. It wasn’t that long ago that peace was threatened by Her Majesty’s cousin—Mary Queen of Scots. Staunch Catholics had been slaughtered. If the Papist burns easily, how much hotter burns the unbaptized heretic?

Rebecca said, “Father instructs me to concern myself little in matters of politics, only to do what I’m told. I forge the documents and forget what is being said around the house.”

“Sound advice,” Dunstan answered.

“He treats me as if I hadn’t a brain.”

“He’s worried for your safety. Uncle has some formidable enemies—”

“Essex—”

“Lower your voice.”

“I’m whispering.”

“Say no more about the mission.” Dunstan scanned the room. Thank God no one was watching them. “Raphael’s death is not only a great loss for our people, but a dilemma for you as well. We both know that Miguel is unfit as a husband. Your future is no longer ensured.”

“It matters not to me.”

“Aye, but it matters much to your father.” Dunstan patted her knee. “But God gave you a fair face and a beautiful form.”

“And a keen mind as well,” she reminded him.

“That is no asset, dear cousin. It’s a defect.”

She turned her head away.

“Not to worry,” he said philosophically. “I overheard your father talking to quite a few lords.”

“A waste of time.”

“Tis good you are less than anxious to wed.” Very good, he thought wolfishly. “I approve not of the merchandise available.”

Rebecca sighed. “And what does not meet with Sir Dunstan Ames’s approval?”

“They’re Englishmen … real Englishmen. Best to stick with kinsmen who understand our ways, even if we have to import a man from the Continent.” Dunstan looked at his hand, at his gold ring. “Although there are advantages of marrying peerage …”

Such as the weight of their purses, Rebecca thought. She said nothing.

Dunstan stroked her cheek under the veil. “Such a face you have. You could be a countess with the bat of an eyelash … The revenues of an earldom at your command … all those golden angels falling at your feet.”

“And a tarnished noble as well.”

Dunstan smiled. “A comfortable position nonetheless.”

“And a grand one for the mission,” Rebecca said. “A matter of time before hands dip into my lord husband’s pockets.”

“We don’t use money for personal gain, Rebecca,” Dunstan said.

Rebecca said, “Then why do your fingers sparkle?”

“I work hard, cousin,” Dunstan said. “I go without sleep for nights—”

“Yet you still live, while Raphael is cold,” Rebecca snapped. “Need I remind you of that detail, cousin?”

“I offer my services wherever I’m needed.”

“Bah,” Rebecca said.

“Even at a time such as this, you bait me, Becca,” Dunstan said. “What pleasure do you derive from it?”

“The same pleasure you derived when you bespoke of Raphael bedding my chambermaid?”

Dunstan didn’t answer, and glanced around the room. All he saw were people preoccupied with themselves and the food. The tables sagged under the weight of platters. And so much more still being prepared in the kitchen. As one tray grew empty, another was brought out by a scullion. Since no one was paying them any mind, Dunstan took her hand, and she didn’t resist. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Rebecca.”

For the first time this afternoon her lip quivered. The overflowing lakes that had formed in her eyes became rivers of tears pouring down her cheek.

“It was for no purpose, Dunstan,” she whispered. “A barter of Raphael’s life for another. Yes, I confess that I wasn’t keen to wed, but I grieve for the loss of my betrothed. At times the mission seems like such folly—”

“Shh,” Dunstan reprimanded her. “There’s much thou knowest not, little one.”

“Oh Dunstan!” she implored. “Don’t let Father marry me to Miguel, as is his duty. You’re a man. Be my lips and plead my case. Though I am so very fond of Miguel, our union would be a mockery!”

In sooth, Dunstan thought. He shook his head, knowing it was his cursed luck to tell his uncle Roderigo the truth about Miguel’s preferences in the art of love. Uncle had a vile temper and was bound to become enraged. He had always loved Miguel like a son. Diplomacy would be of the essence.

He turned to Rebecca. “Nonetheless, it’s your father’s duty to find you a husband.”

But in the meantime, … he thought.

Rebecca moaned. “Dear God help me. At least I had learned to understand Raphael. I become ill at the thought of marrying anyone else.”

“Hush,” he said soothingly. “Keep your ideas to yourself, Rebecca. The more obstinate you become, the more your father feels a need to tame you by marrying you off to the proper gentleman.”

“Yes.” She dabbed her eyes with a lace kerchief. “You’re correct … for once.”

Dunstan ignored the barb. They’d become so frequent of late. He said, “Until an appropriate suitor is found, your hand shall remain free.”

“I don’t want a suitor.”

“You are young and foolish. You don’t know what you want.”

“Had I the skills of a surgeon, I’d rip my womb from my body—”

“Quiet!” Dunstan said. “You’re too young to know the power of the bush between your legs. It will not be plump forever, Rebecca. One day it will dry up and no one shall be enamored of it—or you. You must learn to use the graces God has given you. It guarantees a life of leisure for your old age. A man will endow much upon you if in your youth you serve him well.”

“The stars cast upon me ill hap when they formed me woman,” Rebecca mumbled to herself.

“You speak nonsense.” Dunstan held her hands and looked into her veiled eyes. “But these are trying times for all of us, and you especially are confused. Angry one moment, sullen or grief-stricken the next. It’s best if you say nothing until you’re of stronger mind.”

Rebecca knew he was right. She was exhausted by her contradicting emotions.

Dunstan gave the room another cursory glance. They were still talking unnoticed. Lifting her veil, he kissed her quickly on the lips. “And pray, my sweet, speak not of the mission. You must learn to silence your thoughts, Rebecca. Lips should be shields, not sieves through which excess words do escape.”

Rebecca nodded and Dunstan kissed her again. This time it was with a passion she had experienced long ago in the darkness of a hayloft, and she immediately pulled away. She felt Dunstan’s disappointment and almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

He had been her first tutor, her mentor. It was he who taught her about freedom, filling her mind with tales of his travel to the Continent, to North Africa and the East. He taught her Arabic, Italian, French, Flemish. With each language she acquired, books in the original editions soon followed. Her head became dizzy with ideas that displeased her father immensely. But Dunstan disregarded him and continued her education—in body as well as mind. Rebecca knew he was after the body all along, but he, amongst all the others, was the only one willing to take the time to teach her. So she ceded to his wishes. And he was a gentle one for the first time—calm and slow—coaching with unusual patience the clumsiness out of a twelve-year-old girl.

Rebecca smoothed her cousin’s mustache with the tip of her finger. “How are the bairns?” she asked.

“A lively brood. Grace is ready to drop another son for me. She’s a healthy woman.” A cow, he thought, but God be praised, a good one for breeding—three sons and a daughter, all thriving. Dunstan lowered her veil. “Grace is a good woman also. I thank God for the day I married her. You could learn a great deal from her, cousin.”

Surreptitiously, Dunstan placed in Rebecca’s hand a folded piece of paper.

“What is this?” she said.

“Your proper mourning prayers for your betrothed. Say them in silence before you sleep tonight. God will hear them.”

Rebecca started to unfold the paper. Dunstan placed his hand on hers. He whispered, “Not here, Becca, in private. They are written in the old language.”

Rebecca paled and quickly stuffed the paper up her sleeve.

Dunstan caught the eye of the fat Lady Marlburn and nodded. He whispered to Rebecca, “When alone, you must sit on the floor, even take your meals while sitting on the floor. You may sleep in your bed, however.”

“What happens when my chambermaid comes in my closet,” Rebecca whispered back.

“When she knocks, you get up. She mustn’t see what you are doing—ever. Our money is to be used for the mission, not for paying off suspicious maids. After she leaves, you must sit back on the floor.”

“For just seven days or the whole month?”

“Just the seven days, starting tonight. Then comes the month of lesser mourning.” Dunstan squeezed his cousin’s hand. “We cannot speak anymore. The grand dame Lady Marlburn has espied our conversation and is coming our way. Soon you’ll be besieged with ghouls. Unless you wish to converse with them, I suggest you feign exhaustion.”

Rebecca slumped in her chair. It wasn’t a hard scene to play. She closed her eyes. Blessed darkness.

Chapter 4

By midnight only the converso men remained—six tonight because Hector and Miguel had gone home early with the women to grieve in private. The men sat around the table and waited for the servants to finish tidying the mess that the visitors had made. The wooden plank tables upon which the massive feast had rested were barren. With the fifty-foot walls covered in black cloth and a strong wind whistling through mullion-glass windows, the room seemed as desolate as a crypt. Dunstan Ames suggested that the men retire to a smaller closet, but his father shook his head, feeling too tired to move. Servants and scullions scurried about the hall, their footsteps muffled by the rushes that blanketed the stone floor. Eventually Dunstan grew impatient with their presence and shooed his father’s lackeys away.

Roderigo Lopez was nearly sick with exhaustion and worry. Thank God Rebecca had proved herself to be a strong girl. Not an easy chore. The funeral had been a long ordeal, the church service full of pomp and prayer that left the conversos noticeably uncomfortable. As professed Protestants but secret Jews, they were members of the local parish and attended sabbath services as required by the law of the land. But they tried to be as late for church as possible, sometimes not arriving until the conclusion of the service. Roderigo knew that the other parishoners noticed their tardiness. But the congregants never voiced a word of protest because the parish priest always greeted the conversos warmly. The secret Jews were paying him well. Though they breathed easier in England than in their native land of Portugal—there was no Inquisition here, praise God—they were still forced to hide their worship from prying eyes. An extremely difficult task. Like most landed gentry, Roderigo’s household—and that of his brother-in-law—contained many servants. Discovery of their secret religious services would brand them as Jews, which would mean deportation.

Now, with the servants gone—privacy at last—the conversos could begin the true service of mourning. Dunstan closed the massive doors to the room and the assembled men stood up from the bench, retrieved black skullcaps from their pockets and covered their heads. Roderigo looked at the men—his son, two nephews, a brother-in-law, and a distant cousin. Five grim faces, worn but visibly relieved to be away from the Gentiles. He nodded for his cousin, Solomon Aben Ayesh, to lead the services.

Lopez envied Aben Ayesh. Solomon was the only one amongst them who was an openly professed Jew—a luxury he was now afforded since he no longer lived in Europe. Solomon was short and as thin as a reed, with midnight-blue eyes which appeared black at a distance. As a diamond farmer in India, Aben Ayesh had become rich and powerful—so formidable a man that the Turkish court had rewarded him with the title of Duke of Mytilene. His network of spies was well known throughout the Continent by monarchs who ignored his religious beliefs in order to secure his confidence and, by extension, his privied information. Even though Lopez, as the Queen’s physician, held an enviable position in England, he had none of Aben Ayesh’s religious freedom and independence.

Roderigo listened to Aben Ayesh’s prayers said in Hebrew, then repeated the words out loud. Aching, he felt all of his sixty-eight years. He sucked in his overhanging belly—his stamp of wealth—and straightened his spine. When praying to God, one should stand erect. The Almighty had been kind to him—a good wife and two living, healthy children, one of them a son. God had been good to him physically as well. The hair atop his head was still plentiful, and his skin was nearly wrinkle free, as if Father Time had aged him in leap years. His beard remained as dense as moss and youthfully colored—deep burgundy mixed with rust and wisps of silver.

Roderigo thought back to his first shiva—the official ceremony of Jewish mourning. It had been a clandestine affair in Toledo, held for a cousin burnt as a heretic. Roderigo had just turned thirteen, the age of Jewish manhood, and had been told only recently of his converso bloodline by his parents. Marry, what a revelation that had been! Despite the shock, and danger, that lay ahead, Roderigo decided to remain faithful to his forefathers. He wanted to be a healer of mankind and chose to study medicine—the learned art of the Jewish people. He entered the Universidad Literaria de Salamanca in Spain, graduating with high honors and a medical degree.

Desiring more liberty for his secret practices, Roderigo moved to England during the first years of Elizabeth’s reign, hoping to find relief from the Inquisition; the Virgin Queen was known for a tolerant monarch. As long as her subjects openly supported her and her Church, she chose not to ferret out those who worshiped differently in private. She did this to retain the support of the thousands of secret Papists who still resided in the northern region of the country. But it had a secondary beneficial effect for Roderigo as a secret Jew. As long as he went to the local church, he could practice his religion in the privacy of his own home.

When it was time to marry, Lopez stayed dutiful and chose a wife from the old country—a Portuguese conversa girl twenty years his junior, a cousin of Solomon Aben Ayesh. The doctor brought her over to England, and they settled down to daily life.

Lopez rose to prominence in his field, becoming a member of the College of Physicians and the first house physician at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. His reputation merited him the appointed physician to the Earl of Leicester. This led to the coveted position of Physician-in-Ordinary to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, seven years ago, a position he still held.

But for all his honors, Roderigo couldn’t save Raphael. Teary-eyed, he averted his gaze downward. He’d lost not only a dear friend, but a son-to-be. Such a sorrowful death.

Aben Ayesh finished the prayers and instructed the men to rip the stitching of their doublets then sit on the floor. Roderigo noticed Dunstan wincing. His nephew had been foolish enough to wear a gold-threaded doublet—vain peacock that he was. Roderigo glanced at his son, placed his hand upon his shoulder. Benjamin had just finished Oxford and was planning to go abroad to Venice when the news of Raphael’s death came tumbling upon the family. Roderigo had insisted his son stay for the funeral, but instructed him to leave afterward. Benjamin was kind and generous, thanks be to God the boy was not an ingrate, but unlike his sister, he was slow of wit. A plodder, Roderigo had told his wife Sarah. Roderigo hoped that travel would teach him more successfully than had the university.

Lopez sat on the sweet-smelling rushes next to Benjamin. Across from him were Dunstan and his brother Thomas—a smooth-faced fair man of nineteen. Thomas was built lanky, with long, thin, effeminate fingers. The boy cursed his body often and lashed out frequently at anyone who suggested he was anything less than a man. His quick temper had necessitated early in life an expertise of swordplay. Thomas was renowned for his skill of the fence—much to Dunstan’s displeasure. Thomas could easily best his older brother with a few quick strokes.

Roderigo faced his brother-in-law, Jorge Añoz—Sir George Ames outside the converso community. Jorge had married Sarah’s sister. Good women, thought Roderigo, gentle and dutiful wives. Roderigo thought of his and Jorge’s mistresses and mentally added, tolerant women as well. He said to Jorge, “Raphael needs a replacement as soon as possible.”

Dunstan twisted a braided gold chain around his first finger, then let it fall back against his chest. Surely they didn’t mean him.

Jorge said, “We must find out who told the Spanish captain that Raphael was on board.”

“What makes you think that someone told the captain?” Roderigo said. “He could have simply been found by one of the crew, hiding with the stowaways.”

“Not in a galleon,” Jorge said. “The vessel is so big, twould be an incredible bit of luck to find someone well hidden. So many hatches and compartments.”

“Well, someone found Raphael and the stowaways,” Aben Ayesh said. “Someone handed them over to the Inquisition. But that must not deter us. Too many lives depend on us, on this mission. When was the last time you communicated with the Spanish king, Ruy?”

“I’ve yet to receive word from King Philip,” answered Roderigo.

But Roderigo knew he would hear from His Majesty soon. Another payment was due.

“Do you think he knows what happened?” Jorge asked him.

“I don’t know,” Roderigo said. “But if he is aware of this mishap, we’ll have to increase the payments greatly.”

All the men groaned. They were already paying the Spanish King a fortune in bribe money.

“Can you discreetly get word to His Majesty, Ruy?” Aben Ayesh asked. “Find out what he expects from us?”

Roderigo shook his head. “Transactions such as this one may only be made under the most private of conditions. If, God forbid, our correspondence is discovered, Philip will be angered—beyond repair this time.”

Everyone knew what Roderigo meant. Four years ago, at Roderigo’s and Jorge’s prodding, Queen Elizabeth had abetted the revolt of Don Antonio against King Philip. Don Antonio was an illegitimate descendant from the royal house of Portugal. With English forces at his side, Antonio had rallied his people to revolt against the tyrannical yoke of Spain. It had been a well-placed scheme at the time, and had Don Antonio been of stabler character, it would have worked. The Queen hoped to set up Don Antonio as King of Portugal and gain a formidable ally against Spain in the Iberian peninsula. The conversos wanted Don Antonio as monarch because he was of Jewish descent. Perhaps, as king, Don Antonio would do away with the Inquisition in Portugal—if not abolish the tribunal, at least restrict its powers.

Unfortunately Her Majesty’s fleet, commanded by Sir John Norris and Sir Francis Drake, failed miserably, their attacks easily repelled by King Philip’s Armada. All were left with much to explain. To restore faith with King Philip, appease his wrath, and prevent repercussions against the Spanish conversos, Aben Ayesh paid Philip the enormous sum of fifty thousand ducats. Philip’s anger abated and he allowed their mission to progress without interference. To mollify the irate Elizabeth, Jorge opened the coffers of his lucrative spice business—chartered as the Ames Levantine Trade Company—and stuffed the royal treasury with as much gold as his purses would allow. Her Majesty was forgiving. As a token of her merciful nature, she kept Lopez on as her personal physician and knighted Jorge and his two sons.

“We need another man quickly,” Aben Ayesh stated. “I’ve yet to speak with Hector, but it seems that Miguel, being Raphael’s brother, is the logical replacement for the mission.”

“For Rebecca’s husband as well,” Roderigo added.

Dunstan cleared his throat, flicked away the rushes about him. It was as good as any chance to tell him. Perhaps, with the other men around, Roderigo would exercise some control over his temper. Again the chain was entwined around Dunstan’s finger. He asked permission to speak freely from his father. Jorge nodded.

“Dear Uncle,” Dunstan started off, “Miguel would be an ill-advised husband for Rebecca.”

Roderigo stared at his nephew. “Ill-advised?”

Dunstan nodded.

“Whatever do you mean?” Roderigo stated. “It is Miguel’s religious duty to his brother. He must marry Rebecca and produce a son in his brother’s name.”

Dunstan hesitated, then said, “Such a union would be doomed, Uncle.”

“Where do you come to assert such a statement?” Roderigo asked. “Miguel and Rebecca have known each other for years, they are very fond of each other. She was only promised to Raphael because he was the elder of the two boys. One’s as suitable as the other for a husband. Besides, Miguel has no choice. It’s our law.”

Dunstan looked to his brother for help.

“Uncle,” Thomas said gently. “Miguel is Italian in his practices of love.”

Roderigo’s eyes widened.

“What?” he said. It came out a whisper.

“Where did you hear such twaddle?” Jorge demanded of Thomas.

“From Miguel himself,” Thomas answered, rubbing his naked chin.

“He told us, Father, as soon as he was sure that it was Raphael who’d perished,” Dunstan said.

“Why wasn’t I told?” asked Jorge.

“He begged for no one to know until Uncle had been informed,” Dunstan answered his father. “I thought it best not to contest his wish, seeing the emotional state he was in.”

“Miguel is a buggerer of men?” Roderigo said, horrified.

Thomas nodded.

“Tis not that uncommon, Uncle,” Dunstan said. “Quite the fashion in Venice.”

Roderigo looked at his son.

“No worry, Father,” Ben reassured. “I find the thought 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. “De Gama has promised another note letting me know the details of the cargo.”

Unusual cargo. But when writing to Philip, the Ames Levantine Trade Company had to refer to the stowaways as something. Roderigo was the intermediary representative acting for the company, requesting in writing the purchase of “cargo” from His Majesty. Sometimes the company acquired “pepper.” Other correspondences spoke of the company’s desire to buy cargo of musk, amber, pearls, rubies, diamonds. Much “trade” he had with the Spanish king. Perhaps too much trade for the Queen’s tolerance. Unofficially, England and Spain were still at war. They had to act as fast as possible.

Aben Ayesh continued, “The stowaways should be docked in Spanish Brussels by the end of June. Our agent there is still David. He will bring them to Amsterdam and integrate them.”

Jorge said, “The whole mission will be harder than ever. The galleon ship flies the flag of Sicily—Philip’s dominion. There are bound to be Spaniards aboard, and since Raphael was caught, they’ll be looking out for more stowaways—as well as Miguel.”

“Ferreira de Gama wrote of another possibility,” Aben Ayesh said. “It may be possible to transfer the conversos to an inbound vessel—a ship headed for the Thames. If this is the situation, Miguel has only to sneak aboard a local ship—a much simpler task. The English will not be as suspicious or as vicious as the Spanish. And, God forbid, if Miguel is captured, at least he’ll be under the arm of Her Majesty instead of His Majesty and the Inquisition—as was Raphael.” He sighed. “Dearest, poor Raphael …”

Aben Ayesh lowered his head for a moment. Then it was back to business. He said, “If Ferreira de Gama can arrange such a task, so be it.”

“How inconspicuously does Esteban Ferreira de Gama move under the watchful eye of the Inquisition?” Dunstan asked.

“He grows increasingly concerned for his safety,” Aben Ayesh said. “But, praise be to God, so far the Holy See has no suspicions that he is one of us.”

“What’s the name of the galleon that holds the conversos?” Benjamin asked.

“El Don Carlos,” said Aben Ayesh. “Would that Philip’s son were as mighty as his namesake of a ship.”

“We must begin Miguel’s training at once. He must be skilled enough to fight off anyone who challenges him on the road to Portsmouth.”

All eyes went to Thomas.

“I’ll teach him what I’m able.” Thomas patted the hilt of his sword. “But only Miguel can execute the moves.” He paused, then blurted out, “Of course, I’d be happy to accompany him—”

“You’re needed in the business,” Jorge said firmly. “I need someone trustworthy with the money and inventory at home.”

“What about Dunstan?” Thomas retorted.

“Dunstan travels much,” Jorge said.

Benjamin said, “Uncle, I could cancel my overseas travel if I am needed.”

“Nonsense,” Jorge said. “Go to Venice.”

Thomas said, “But—”

“Enough,” answered Jorge.

“Father, there is not a man alive who has my skill in swordplay, my swiftness, my strength—”

“Quiet,” Jorge yelled. “I’ve heard your pleas before and again I reject them. Thomas, my son, if we have not the funds with which to bribe, all our efforts are for naught. Besides, Tommy, I want you whole until Leah is healthy enough to deliver to you a fine son.”

Biting his lip, Thomas sank back in his chair. Dunstan grinned.

“By the way, Tommy,” he said. “Where is your wife?”

Thomas reddened with anger. As if the bastard didn’t know.

“Leah has taken rest with her parents in Turkey,” Aben Ayesh answered for Thomas. “She’s due back in England during autumn.”

Dunstan said, “Tut, tut. The lass was sorely worn out by the birth of another daughter!”

Thomas bolted up and drew his sword.

“Stow thy peace, Thomas,” shouted Jorge. “And quit thy baiting words, Dunstan. Such animosity between brothers! Tis ungodly! Learn a lesson from Miguel and Raphael—God rest his soul. Now there were true brothers.”

Shamefaced, Thomas returned to the floor. The men sat in silence for a moment. Aben Ayesh asked wearily,

“Any questions about the operation?”

Again, shakes of the head.

Aben Ayesh said, “We need many more citizen’s papers. We have left only six official sets.”

“Grace is completing a set as we speak,” said Dunstan.

“Maria had done two,” Jorge said.

“We still are short,” Aben Ayesh said.

“I shall tell Sarah to get to work,” said Roderigo. “Becca can work as well. The task shall occupy her thoughts, keep her mind off her woes.”

“Uncle,” Dunstan said, “I pray you, remind Rebecca to speak with discretion.”

“Has she been indiscreet?” Roderigo asked.

Dunstan hesitated, then said, “She’s a woman. All women have loose tongues. And that can be fatal, especially since you house that worm, de Andrada.”

Roderigo grimaced at the mention of the name. De Andrada, Don Antonio’s former “trusted” spy, wanted by Don Antonio for being a traitor. A snake Lopez was forced to feed and shelter because de Andrada had managed to learn too much about their operations. Though de Andrada had acted grateful for the help, Lopez knew he could never be trusted.

“I shall remind Becca of the virtue of silence,” Roderigo said.

“We must pray,” Aben Ayesh said, rising. “Instead of our individual meditations, let us say our morning prayers together—as if we were a minyan.”

“Morning prayers?” Dunstan said. “It’s still night.”

“Would you rather say them when the servants are awake and their ears are open to our chanting?” Roderigo said.

Dunstan turned red.

“Excuse my impertinence, Father,” Benjamin said, “but do not we need ten to be a minyan?”

Roderigo said, “We are only six in number but thousands in spirit. God will forgive us.”

The men stood and faced the eastern side of the chamber. Jorge extinguished the torches, leaving only the faint, orange flame of candlelight. Silhouettes of faces projected onto the walls. Head down, Aben Ayesh began the prayer of kaddish over Raphael’s soul—a supplication praising God’s infinite power and wisdom. He whispered the blessing so the servants could not hear. But in truth, he knew he needn’t have vocalized the blessing at all. God hears everything.

Chapter 5

Manuel de Andrada knew they were plotting his demise. He could feel evil vapors swirling about his room. It was the same aura he had sensed before his defection from Don Antonio’s service, and it filled him with dread.

Twas only a matter of time.

He shivered under his counterpane, his winter nightshirt itchy, sewn from frieze cloth—a pauper’s garment. Marry, how it irritated his skin! Dr. Lopez had not the decency to give him one woven from flax, the miserable wight. Throwing the blanket atop his head, de Andrada bunched himself into a tight knot and began his ritual curses.

Curse Don Antonio—his former master. A man he had fought for, spied for, a man whom he had almost given his life for … Almost.

Curse King Philip—a weak old wretch whose generosities were as shriveled as his face. De Andrada remembered his last visit with His Majesty, kissing the bony hand, sitting at the side of the black, velvet wheelchair. The royal features had been as hard as stone, the eyes as small as a rat’s. Cold, calculating, and stingy. Did the King not recognize the service that he—Manuel de Andrada—had performed for him?

He had spied against Don Antonio for Philip, had even bribed a helmsman to deliver the Pretender to the Throne of Portugal into the hands of the Spanish king. But the note had been found. Though written in special ink, it had been deciphered. His treason against Don Antonio—who was now in exile, somewhere in Eton, de Andrada had last heard—had landed him six months in the Tower.

Had that been part of Lopez’s plan to do him in? Had Lopez only rescued him because he had known about the doctor’s mission? Had Lopez been afraid that he—de Andrada—would be of loose lips?

He thought a moment.

No, de Andrada thought, decidedly not. Lopez had been a true healer back then—kind and true-hearted. It was Lopez who’d secured his release from prison. The doctor had taken him into his own home, fed him fresh meats, clothed him in vestments that didn’t itch. Had Roderigo not intervened in his behalf, he would have been behalved.

But curse Lopez now. He had dealt deceptively with his faithful servant—Manuel de Andrada—just like the rest. Though Lopez professed that he was a guest in his house, without any funds, de Andrada was completely at Lopez’s mercy. Aye, the doctor had turned into a witch doctor. Roderigo Lopez had beguiled him, forced him to act as a go-between with the King of Spain, inveigled him into his Jew-saving intrigues. And now, after months of dedicated work, de Andrada was being discarded, tossed out the window like shit in a chamberpot.

He sighed. In his life he’d been employed by so many, turned traitor to so many. It was hard to keep them all sorted.

How would the doctor arrange the death—his death? An accidental fall from a horse? Did not the groom look at him with naughty eyes? When had that been? A week ago? Two weeks? Aye, when Saturn had been in Pisces, the sun sign of his birth. A bad omen!

He rolled over onto his back and groaned.

Poison perhaps? Aye, poison was a favorite pastime of the physician to the Queen. De Andrada remembered too clearly Lopez’s verbal offer to poison Don Antonio. Aye, Lopez denied it to the world, and nothing in writing could prove otherwise, but de Andrada had heard the words uttered from the witch doctor’s lips. Bottles of potions were stored in Lopez’s still room. Jugs of Indian acacia. Barrels of distilled hemlock, ripening, aging like kegs of fine wine!

De Andrada trembled.

Suddenly all was clear. Why was he always the first to be served at dinnertime, at suppertime as well? It was not as they claimed—that he was a guest, and as such, honored with the first fruits of the kitchen. Nay, his portion of food had been tainted. Slow and painful poisoning!

The realization of why he’d been so ill of late.

Marry, it was so logical now. They hated him. Had he been invited to the house of the doctor’s brother-in-law?

No.

The reason for the exclusion?

It could only be treachery against him. He was wasting away on a stiff straw pallet, racked with fever and pain brought on by poison, while they laughed at his impending death.

He gasped and coughed, trying to bring up his supper. After a minute of retching, he gave up. The juices of his stomach had eaten up the stew hours ago.

The stew, he thought. He recollected tiny pieces of fleshy vegetable mixed with roots, leeks, and mutton.

Mad apple!

He shuddered. Had the stew contained eggplant as well as rat’s bane? Poison was not enough for the doctor’s delight. He was trying to drive him mad as well!

He’d take no more meals with the evil ones!

Suddenly he smiled. He was safe—at least temporarily. How much he had overheard! How many “secret” letters he had read! How much he knew! Lopez had disregarded his own rules—destroy anything written, talk softly, trust no one.

And then there was Nan Humbert—the Ames’s chambermaid. All he had to do was pray with the withered, Puritan biddy and she’d sing much about the family whispers. She had bigger and better ears than he did.

De Andrada started to plan his defense.

Who was Lopez pitted against? Who loathed Lopez as much as Don Antonio … No, that wasn’t it. Who loathed Lopez more than he detested the doctor himself—and had the power to turn his hatred into action? Certainly not Lord Burghley. He and Lopez had become friends of late. Not his crookback son Robert Cecil either.

Who?

Why, the ambitious red-haired youth with the fair face and the choleric temperament.

Essex!

He would ingratiate himself with Essex. Offer to spy against Lopez in order to secure the lord’s favor.

The smile widened to a grin.

Essex. Such an impetuous cock. He’d do anything to advance his War Party. It was no secret that the lord longed for war—for an astounding military victory over Spain, with him at the head of the troops. How Essex hungered for power, the cheers and adulation of his countrymen, the admiration of his peers. How he ached to win the hand of Eliza. Oh yes, it was the crown of England that the lord desired. It was no secret at all. Even Her Majesty knew his wants.

But the High Treasurer, Lord Burghley, and Lopez were obstacles, both secretly advocating peace with the King of Spain to Her Majesty. Lord Essex was bound to welcome his help, would receive Manuel de Andrada with much cheer, heaping angels upon him as payment for well-executed spying.

Of course, there was the small matter of Antony Bacon, Essex’s spy master. De Andrada would have to convince him that he was trustworthy. Bacon was a clever man, exceedingly wary. But hadn’t he, Manuel de Andrada, fooled other equally clever men? Bacon was but one small obstacle to overcome.

De Andrada felt confident and congratulated himself for a scheme so brilliant.

He hugged himself harder, tighter, squeezing his knees against his chest.

Eat no food. Not even the fruit in the bowl.

But he was hungry.

One bite of apple?

Nay, do not succumb. It is all vile.

A half bite?

Not even a lick.

He would not give up without a fight! He would scrape and bite and claw and kick, but he would not give up without a fight. If he would lose his head, so would a witch doctor.

Rebecca lay atop her feather mattress, wondering how her father was planning her future. She had no idea how late it was as she couldn’t see the sand glass on the mantel opposite her bed. Yet she refused to light her candle, consuming solace once again from the darkness. Her chamber walls, like those in her uncle’s Great Hall, had been draped in black cloth, hiding the arras work and tapestries. She felt as though she were sleeping in a bat’s cave. The sole illumination came from moonbeams streaking through her bedchamber’s window. They fell upon the table next to her bed, highlighting the pitcher and washbasin on the tabletop. Outside, the winds whistled through the shutters, swayed the boughs of the newly budded trees, kicking up eddies of dirt and dust, a moving sketch done in charcoal and framed by the window sash.

Her future. If only she had some control over her destiny. Her life, always in the hands of another—her elders, her cousins, her brother, God—in any hands but hers. Were her hands any less capable than Benjamin’s, than Dunstan’s or Thomas’s? But her hands had the misfortune to be attached to the body of a woman.

She swallowed back tears, cursed her lot in life. A moment later she broke into sobs, feeling sudden shame at her rantings. Why had she been allowed to live and her betrothed taken in his prime?

Poor Raphael, how did you meet your end?

Rebecca had loved him because it had been her duty. She had addressed him with a modulated tone of voice, greeted him with smiles, suffered his dark moods in silence. She knew it was his work, not she, that had been his true passion. Life was a mysterious animal. In the end it was his passion that did him in. She worried that the passion might also destroy her dear Miguel.

Miguel was her distant cousin but her brother in spirit. He’d never been a lover of women. Yet he was also a dutiful son. If their fathers wished them to wed, they would wed. And what a mockery that would be.

There was a knock on her door, her mother’s whisperings. Rebecca forced herself upright, unlocked the door, then fell back atop her counterpane. Sarah Lopez, clad in her bedclothes, entered the bedchamber and sat on her daughter’s mattress. A moonbeam fell across her face, turned her cheeks ghostly white. Her eyes looked so sad, but Rebecca had never remembered a day when they had looked happy. Sarah brushed her waist-length gray hair off her shoulders and touched Rebecca’s hand. It was rigid and cold.

“Under the covers, Becca,” Sarah ordered gently. “I’ll not allow you to grow ill from the frigid air. Tis a tomb inside here—dark and wintry. I’ll call the chambermaid and have her rekindle the hearth immediately.”

Rebecca squeezed her mother’s hand. “How can I allow myself warmth and comfort when Raphael sits for eternity in an icy bed?”

Sarah pulled back the bedcovers. “Inside, little one, I prithee.”

Rebecca slithered underneath the down blanket. Sarah drew the spread up to her daughter’s chin.

“I’m not half the clever wordsmith that you are, Becca,” spoke Sarah. “I’ve stayed up for hours trying to find proper words of solace, yet my mind is as empty as a newborn babe’s. Tell me what to do to comfort you.”

Rebecca didn’t answer. Her mother’s voice, though soothing, sounded so weary. It saddened Rebecca to think that she’d brought any more woes to her mother. She embraced her mother and told her she loved her.

Sarah said, “You are my joy, Becca. All I desire is happiness for you and Benjamin.”

Rebecca knew this to be the truth. She’d never seen her mother engaged in idle play. Sarah’s life revolved around Father and his activities, around her and Ben.

Rebecca asked, “Has Father made mention to you of my future?”

“He has yet to return home from Uncle Jorge’s.” She sighed. “I suspect he’ll spend the night there. By and by you’ll know of Father’s intention. He’s never been one to hide from you his plans.”

“I wish he’d leave me in solitude.”

“That is impossible, dear Becca,” Sarah said. “While you’re still somewhat young, the years do pass by quickly. Best to have children while your womb is strong.”

“I wish—” Rebecca realized how quiet was the night and dropped her voice. “I wish our religion allowed us nunneries.”

“Black is a color ill-suited for your complexion,” Sarah said. She kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Have you said your proper prayers for … for Raphael?”

Rebecca nodded.

Sarah said, “God will hear them.”

Rebecca asked, “Have you told Grandmama about Raphael?”

“I didn’t tell her, yet she knew,” Sarah said. “Sometimes I think my mother a witch rather than an addled old woman.”

“She is neither,” Rebecca said. “She is a marvelous woman.”

“Tis most inappropriate for you to doubt my love and affection for my mother, Becca.”

Sarah’s voice held a wounded note. Rebecca picked up her hand and kissed it.

“I apologize, my gentle mother.”

Sarah squeezed her daughter’s hand and said,

“Grandmama shows no fretting over the news. She keeps her tears inside. Yet we both know she feels deeply. Raphael had been kind to her.”

“May I spend my mourning in Grandmama’s room?”

Sarah thought for a moment. “Father would never permit it. Guests will come to comfort you—”

“They come to eat.”

“Nonetheless, you must be visible and behave appropriately. Accept their platitudes of sorrow as if they meant something to you.”

“Playact, aye?”

Sarah sighed. “Yes,” she said. “Playact.”

“At least may I pass my nights with her?”

Her mother lowered her head and said, “Father prefers to keep you away—”

“Father errs,” Rebecca interrupted. “Father thinks Grandmama’s an old harpy with a head full of mush. You know that’s not so.”

“Rebecca, my obligations come first to my master, second to my mother and children. You must learn that else you’ll make a poor English gentlewoman and wife.”

“I’d rather become not an English wife but an English spinster,” Rebecca blurted out. “I’ve no desire to marry!”

She expected to hear reproachment from her mother. Instead Sarah patted her hand in sympathy.

“Time will alter your desires,” she said.

Rebecca noticed for the first time how her mother trembled from cold. She held open her cover for her, bade her to come inside. Sarah shook her head.

“I must get back to my chambers. Father will be furious if he finds me sleeping with you. He thinks I’ve spoiled you beyond redemption.”

“In sooth, his assessment is not far from wrong.”

Sarah smiled. “Do try to sleep.”

“Mother?”

“Aye.”

“Can you request of Father to allow me to sleep with Grandmama? I’d find it most comforting.”

“I’ll pose the question to him. But I think you’ll mislike the response.”

“Plead with him.”

“I’ll do what I can, Becca.”

Rebecca hesitated, then said, “I’m being selfish, Mother. Plead not with him. Ask him most noncommitally. Don’t risk his wrath for my sake.”

Sarah kissed her daughter. “I’ll do what I can,” she repeated. “Should I call the chambermaid to rekindle the fire?”

“Not necessary,” Rebecca said. “I’m very sleepy.”

“Well then,” Sarah said. “Good night, Becca. Things will be better come the morning light.”

Rebecca nodded, watched her mother’s shadow disappear from the room. Her mother, the hours of her life divvied up by Father and his work, by her and Ben, by Grandmama. But never a moment for herself. Sarah had once told her that she thought of herself as an extra arm for the members of her family. Rebecca also remembered when her mother had confided her reveries as a young girl—how one day she’d live in the clouds made of spun sugar, fly upon the back of a golden eagle and touch the sun. Where did those dreams go? Her mother—her heart in the sky, her muscles saddled with duty.