The Quality of Mercy. Faye KellermanЧитать онлайн книгу.
“You know him?” asked Chambers, frightened.
“By reputation only,” Shakespeare answered. “An atheist—a foul, cunning man. And deadly with a sword.”
Chambers swallowed back a dry heave.
Shakespeare said, “His woman is still Mary Biddle?”
Chambers nodded.
“Are they still here?” Shakespeare asked.
“No.”
“Back in London?”
“It seems likely. London is Mackering’s favorite place of operation.” Chambers paused, then said, “Pray, leave now.”
Shakespeare stood up and placed a shilling atop the table. Chambers snatched it up, bit it, and placed it in his purse before Shakespeare was out the door.
All was not well with Roderigo Lopez. Raphael’s death had been a black cloud, a storm that had left no one in the family untouched. Rebecca was once again a single woman, and Miguel’s peculiarities were keeping her that way for the moment.
But now Lopez was preoccupied with a single thought—it had been nearly a month since he’d been called to court. Though it could not be proven, he knew in his heart that the Queen was deliberately shunning his counsel, her avoidance no doubt fueled by evil words from the damnable Essex. Royal blood ran thick through the earl’s veins—another stubborn redhead with a fiery temperament.
Roderigo spewed out curses as he paced, his heavy bootsteps stomping through the straw and echoing against the stone pavers. Normally the East Cell of his home was his favorite place of refuge—a closet where he could work or relax unmolested. Warmed by the fires burning in an exceptionally large hearth, Roderigo often sat at his desk in his favorite chair, admiring his pewter inkstand or unfolding and studying his recently charted maps. Once a week he counted his assets on his calculating board. The chamber was his retreat from the outside world. But this afternoon its magical spell of tranquility had been broken by the presence of his nephews—Thomas and Dunstan—and Miguel Nuñoz, sitting around his personal writing table.
May we meet, they had asked. Details of the mission must be discussed at length … And other things.
He knew what they meant by other things, what they dared not say in public. He had lost favor with the Queen. Only a temporary condition, he assured himself as he marched to and fro. Essex’s doing today would be his undoing in the future. He’d see to that! And to think that he had once trusted the bloodlusting dog.
He had to reach the Queen. But how? As of late Her Grace had no need of his services. The woman was in perfect health, sound in both body and mind—as strong as a bull and as crafty as a witch.
“A pox on him,” Roderigo swore out loud once again. “Curse Essex and everything he holds dear.”
“Do cool your choler, Uncle,” Dunstan said, playing with his diamond earring. Good heavens, the old man was full of spleen tonight. “It does us no good if you mutter and strut.”
Roderigo cursed again, but this time the heat of his words was directed against his nephew. “Show respect to your elder, you arrogant little maggot.” He slapped Dunstan soundly across the face with the back of his hand.
Stung more by the insult than by injury, Dunstan stammered out words of apology. With an unsteady hand he removed a red silk kerchief from his doublet and wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead, his eyes beseeching his brother for help.
“Do sit, Uncle,” Thomas urged. Reflexively, he rubbed his naked chin, and thought angrily of his smooth skin. Why had he been hexed—to exist without manly fur? Why him and not Dunstan? He was star-crossed, pulled too early from the womb under the wrong configuration of planets. He glanced at Roderigo, who hadn’t appeared to hear him. “Pray, do not tire yourself unnecessarily, Uncle. Better to save your energy for more noble a purpose.”
Roderigo considered the suggestion, and upon deciding it to be a good one, sat down in his favorite oak armchair. Sarah had sewn the pillow used for a backrest—a portrait of Deborah, the blind prophetess, holding the scales of justice. He tilted his head backward and regarded the fresco painted upon the ceiling—Samson breaking down the pillars of the Philistine temple, curly hair cascading down to his loincloth, eye sockets vacant and white. On the walls hung tapestry panels that told the story of David and Bathsheba. When he stared straight ahead, he saw three pairs of anxious eyes. Roderigo longed to look at something that didn’t look back at him. Grumpily, he rang for Martino, his blackamoor servant.
“Where is your father?” Roderigo asked Dunstan.
“His trade took him down to Dover,” Dunstan answered quietly. “A new shipment of anise.”
Martino entered the closet and Roderigo barked out an order for superior port. After the servant departed, Lopez’s eyes rested upon Miguel, almost daring him to speak. The young man pushed a ringlet of black hair off his forehead and squirmed under the scrutiny, crossing and recrossing his legs, unsure of how to proceed. Miguel knew he had disappointed Roderigo immensely, but what could he have done differently? Would it have been better to say nothing? Miguel had told Rebecca about his vices years ago. Now, at last, Roderigo knew the truth as well.
After much deliberation, when it had been verified that Raphael indeed had perished, he’d confessed his preferences in the art of love to Dunstan and Thomas, suspecting that they had known about his practices all the while. He’d asked them to deliver the news to their uncle, thus sparing him the initial pain and embarrassment. He held so much admiration and love for the doctor, a man who had treated him as kindly as his own son, Benjamin. And Sarah was the mother he had never known. Though the families were distant relations, they had always been inseparable.
But Roderigo, sorely impatient with anything that upset his plans, had been furious with him—as if Miguel had failed him out of spite. Much as Miguel tried, he couldn’t seem to make Roderigo understand: that he loved Rebecca dearly as a sister, that his own welfare was secondary to hers. Rebecca deserved more than he could hope to give her. God knew he had tried to explain it, but the doctor hadn’t seemed any more consoled. Such contempt in his eyes as he spoke:
Surely you can tolerate her as a diversion. At least you can hold your nose long enough, until there is a legitimate heir.
Miguel held his own flaring temper and said nothing. Roderigo continued,
Out of my sight, you fop, you woman! Play with your boys until it falls off and rots, for all I care.
Miguel had stalked away, angry and guilty. He cursed God for afflicting him with so wretched a perversion made so sweet by his lovers’ arms. If only Raphael hadn’t died!
But then there came his reprieve. The mission. The family men had approached him. Would he volunteer to continue his brother’s efforts?
Miguel had offered to work for the mission many times, but the suggestion always had been met with hesitancy by his father and Raphael. Aye, Raphi had loved him, always tried to protect him against the evil forces that be. And in the end it was Raphi, not he, who’d been murdered by Satan’s agents.
After Raphael’s death, Miguel was determined to go on with his brother’s work. He was thinking about how to approach the other men when they came to him. Would he continue where Raphael had left off? By God, he would, he’d replied. It would be an honor! If God were with him, he would save lives, revenge his brother’s death and earn back the doctor’s respect. Despite the mounting adversity—the Earl of Essex’s hatred of Roderigo, the rise in popularity of the lord and his War Party—the secret Jews decided they must carry on.
“The Queen,” Miguel began. “Her Grace has yet to send for you, Ruy.”
Roderigo continued to stare at him.