The Quality of Mercy (25 page)

A raven darted into the sky, and in a finger snap the falcon swooped upon it — a tapestry of black and white against a cerulean canvas. A moment later the raven was nothing more than a burst of pitch-colored feathers and a bloody carcass plummeting to the ground. Lopez ordered his retriever to fetch the pickings, and held out his arm ramrod straight. The gyrfalcon landed on his hawking glove, an ebony plume trapped in her beak, the back of her claws stained with blood. Bending his arm at the elbow, Roderigo took out a piece of raw heron’s heart from a leather pouch and fed it to the bird. It was unusually fair weather for mid-May, the mist burned away by unseasonable heat, perfect air for birding.

Roderigo looked at Rebecca. She was dressed in a kelly-green bodice and skirt overlaid with black lace. Her gloves were new — black velvet embroided with gold and green thread. She was truly a sight to admire, of beautiful form and face. A woman much wanted, but soon to be wasted if no husband was soon found. He said, “Snowbird is truly a magnificent specimen. Kissed by God with a keen acumen, sharp vision, talons of remarkable strength, and a heavenly beauty so rare it would make an angel weep. But all of her attributes are worth nothing unless she’s made suitable for her purpose. A stunning but wild bird is a sacrilege, daughter. An upset in God’s divine order.”

Rebecca looked at her father, then stared at the rolling hillocks around her. They were hawking on the common property — land owned equally by her father, her uncle Jorge, her uncle Solomon, and Miguel’s father Hector. The conversos were indeed landed gentry. The vast acreage held not only wooded area for hawking, but fields for their livestock — cows, goats, and sheep. Each family owned its own manor house and stable which fronted the huge parcel. Dunstan and Thomas, being married men with families, lived on the back side of the land in modest twelve-room houses owned by their father. Next to her cousins’ homes lay the skeletal frame of another house, one meant for her and Raphael. Rebecca had not passed by it since the day her betrothed had died.

Some day all the houses and land would pass to Benjamin, Dunstan, Miguel, and Jacob — Uncle Solomon’s eldest son. Rebecca often wondered where Thomas fit in, but the thought of being without property never seemed to bother him.

Roderigo gently raised Rebecca’s face until her eyes met his. “We mustn’t upset the order, eh, Becca?”

Rebecca remained silent.

“Bah.” Roderigo released her chin. “You’ve begged me to take you hawking with Snowbird ever since she was a wee eyas, and yet you watch her possess the sky and remain as stone. I should have thought you’d have been thrilled by the display of her hunt.”

The retriever sprinted over to Roderigo and dropped the raven at his feet. The bird was still alive, gasping its last breaths. Roderigo picked up the blackbird by its talons and held it before Rebecca’s eyes.

“Does the sight of blood weaken your stomach, daughter?”

Rebecca said, “Only if it’s my own.”

Roderigo laughed heartily, then said, “Here, here.”

He pulled out a knife, and without flinching, bent the bird’s neck backward and slit its throat. Immediately he turned the decapitated body upside down and let the blood run off. The dog went wild, lapping up the stream of fresh blood as it splashed to the ground.

Ritual slaughtering — the blessing over the animal to be butchered, the slitting of the throat. The conversos performed their religious duties with each bird caught by the hawks, be it alive or dead. Of course, slaughtering
live
birds was preferable, more in keeping with the customs of the old ways. Her father and uncles killed the domestic fowl in the same manner. The younger men were in charge of the big beasts — the cows and sheep. Raphael and Benjamin would constrain the animal with ropes. Miguel would pull back the head and Thomas would sever the vessels of the neck in a single pass. Rebecca had once witnessed the butchery of a sheep when she was a girl. The dumb thing had thrashed about, bleated pathetically. The racket had been horrifying. Thomas’s hand never wavered. Afterward she vomited. Rebecca had been partially relieved when she learned that Dunstan had no stomach for blood either. As an adult she outgrew her squeamishness. Dunstan never did.

“My compliments on a job neatly done,” Rebecca said.

Roderigo tossed the bird’s head a distance of twenty feet. The retriever darted after the scrap, his mouth drooling with hunger.

Rebecca said, “Why have you brought me out here, Father?”

“As I’ve stated, you’ve asked to accompany me and Snowbird hawking.”

“And that is the only reason? To satisfy my desires?”

“You’re clever.” Roderigo stroked her cheek. “You tell me.”

“May I hold Snowbird?” she asked, slipping on a thick leather glove.

“Can I trust you?”

“Yes.”

Roderigo hesitated, then brought the falcon to Rebecca’s extended arm. She pushed on the bird’s chest. The falcon flapped her wings, then hopped onto her glove. She giggled with delight.

“Father, she’s splendid! Such strength! In the female species, nonetheless. My heart is beating so rapidly, I’m so excited to hold her.” She turned to Roderigo. “Do you ever worry that you’ll not be able to reclaim her?”

“Every time I cast her aloft I worry that she’ll fly away, or become entangled in a tree and lose her plumage.” Roderigo paused. “But hawks must hawk… and women must marry. The order of life.”

Rebecca handed the falcon back to Roderigo and lowered her head. Dressing as a man had been nothing more than a diversion — something done for excitement. When she’d stripped herself of male dress, all her freedom had fallen off. Gently she touched her dueling scratch hidden under a velvet sleeve. She said, “You’ve found me a husband, have you not?”

“Aye, in a manner of speaking.” Roderigo called to his falconer. “Francis, take Snowbird back to the mew and hood her.” The doctor handed him the gyrfalcon and the dead raven. “I fear the bright sun has made her exhausted,” he said. “Make sure you reward Snowbird with the kidneys and the heart of the raven.”

“As you say, Dr. Lopez,” said Francis, smoothing Snowbird’s feathers. He was a young, wiry man of nineteen with feathery blond hair, a long nose, and close-set cornflower-blue eyes. Rebecca often wondered if the falconer was part hawk himself — a creation of a bird and some Olympic god in a moment of drunken stupor. She smiled at Francis, but he didn’t notice.

“Snowbird seemed a bit unsteady on her left side,” said the falconer.

“Aye?” said Roderigo.

“Ever so slightly, especially when she swoops north by northeast. I think her right ala should be cropped back a wee bit to aid her balance.”

“Whatever you say,” Roderigo said.

“And we’re almost out of herbs necessary for her eye-drops, Dr. Lopez.”

“Ask Martino for whatever you need,” Roderigo said. “How fares the Queen’s goshawk?”

“She is ready to be returned to the royal mew.”

“Splendid, Francis,” Roderigo exclaimed. “Well done.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Francis kissed the bird’s beak, closed her eyes, and hooded the falcon. “We’ve got a sweet treat for you, my beautiful lover,” he cooed as he walked away.

Alone with Rebecca, Roderigo said, “Snowbird could well mint me hundreds of pounds if I sold her on the open market. But, alas, it is rumored that the Queen would take much pleasure in adding her to the royal yard.”

“What are you going to do?” Rebecca asked.

“I shall offer the bird to Her Grace, of course. We all do things that we like not, eh, daughter?”

“Who is my husband to be?”

“I give you choices, Becca. I cosset you excessively. A weakness of mine that I should overcome!”

“What are my choices?”

“They are thus. You may become a maid of honor at court, or you may marry Miguel. Personally, I hope you select the latter. Better to have a legitimate heir with a woman than to have a bastard with a swain of noble birth.”

Rebecca paused, confused. “I know not—”

“Don’t
lie
to me, Becca! I know what you do when you’re alone in the house.”

Rebecca stared at him. Roderigo pulled out a brown cap decorated by a bent peacock feather from his doublet.

“Does this look familiar?” he asked. “It was found yesterday, snagged on one of the hedges.”

“By whom?”

“Does it matter?”

“Aye, to me it does.”

“By de Andrada, if you must know.” Roderigo grabbed her shoulders. “Who does it belong to, Becca? Who are you dallying with behind my back?”

“Father, this cap belongs—” She stopped. If she admitted she had no lover and that the cap was Ben’s, it would lead to many questions — reveal her preoccupation with dressing as a man. She knew her father would become more enraged by her games than by normal female desires.

“Go on,” Roderigo said.

“I have nothing to say,” Rebecca answered.

“Rebecca, how could you act so carelessly!” Roderigo cried. “You could be carrying a bastard in your belly this moment! Then, despite that face, who decent would want you, girl? No one!”

“Father—”

“Listen to me,” Roderigo interrupted. “If you should decide to go to court, I would be much pleased if you’d flatter Essex, but keep your legs crossed — that is, if your womb is empty as I pray it should be. The last thing I need is a bastard grandchild by a bastard.”

“May I—”

“Quiet! Interrupt not my thoughts.” Roderigo began to pace. “If you’re already with child, Becca, you must attract a man of noble lineage and much money, and bed him no matter how repulsive he be to you. Then, at least, if your bastard is a son, he should be well cared for. Just make sure he’s well-stocked with land
and
gold.”

“May I speak?”

“Not yet. If your womb is empty and you marry Miguel, I shall insist upon one
pure
-blooded male heir. Surely that’s not too much to ask. After that I’m sure the boy would be happy to claim as his own any bastard that you’d produce and live the rest of his life contentedly with you in separate beds. After all, you two are fond of each other, are you not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Marriage to Miguel would serve thrice its purpose, Becca. The first would be a proper male heir, the second would be congenial companionship for life — that’s not to be scoffed at. The third purpose, my dear daughter, would be a boon for you. You could sport with whomever you’d want without incurring the wrath of a jealous husband… as long as you were discreet.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Well?” Roderigo asked.

“I’m not with child, Father.”

“How can you be certain—”

“I’m certain because I have no lover. Furthermore, I find this conversation most distasteful.”

“Aye, well…” Roderigo cleared his throat. “Becca—”

“Did de Andrada tell you I entertained a lover in your absence?”

“He made mention that he saw a certain fellow with this cap leaving the house.”

“And you believed him, Father? A traitor? A known perjurer and thief? A man as slimy as an eel!”

The doctor reddened behind his ears. He said, “Was he lying, Becca? You tell me and I’ll believe you.”

“De Andrada lied if he told you that the fellow was my amour.”

“Then who was he?”

“A friend, nothing more.”

“His name?”

Rebecca cocked her head, thought, then said, “I cannot divulge his identity.”

“Rebecca, I will not tolerate—”

“I’ve tolerated your intrigues, Father. And their consequences could bring much harm to me and Mother. Aye, they’ve already done their damage to your
true
servant, Raphael. Yet Mother and I say nothing, and we live in constant fear of exposure. We do as told with no questions asked. I guarantee you, Father, my friend is of no concern to you nor to your schemes.”

“You must tell me his name.”

“And if I refuse?”

Roderigo stared at her, then threw up his hands. “Do you see him often?”

“Not at all. Seldomly he shows up at my doorstep.”

“Best to keep it that way.”

“Yes,” agreed Rebecca. “I swear to you with the truth in my throat that the man is not nor has ever been my lover.”

Roderigo thought a minute, then said, “I believe you.” He hugged her tightly. “I believe you. My God, I’m relieved! I stayed up half the night thinking about your future if you were with child. Thanks be to God you are not. You swear, aye?”

“I swear.”

“God is merciful.”

“So may we drop these ultimatums and carry on as if we’ve never had this conversation?”

Roderigo frowned. “No, Becca. Your choices still stand.”

“But why? I have done nothing to dishonor you—”

“You are nearly eighteen and
unmarried,
Becca. That is enough to dishonor me! You show no interest in settling down to a proper life as an English gentlewoman. Your sewing is abysmal, your music teacher tells me you spend little time on your virginal lessons, rarely do you converse with your mother or your aunt—”

“I care not to gossip.”

“You spend endless hours absorbed in books… or worse, dueling with your shadow in the orchard! You are not a man, Becca. You have no need of the skills of the fence! Learn what is
expected
of you!”

“I shall be more diligent in my proper studies,” Rebecca said softly.

“No, daughter, your promises are no longer sufficient. You’ve sung that tune too often. You must marry or go to court. I have a responsibility toward your well-being, Becca, because I am your father and because I love you. I must stop allowing you to bend me to your will with your eyes and your pouts.”

Keep calm,
Rebecca told herself.

“I shall think about the choices, Father.” She gathered up her skirt. “If you have nothing more to tell me, I should like to ride home now.”

“I have something more to tell you.”

Rebecca waited.

“I want your decision now,” Roderigo said.

“This moment?”

“Aye.”

“But that’s not
fair
!” she protested.

Roderigo shrugged and said, “I care
not
what you think is fair, daughter.”

“Why?”
she yelled. “Why do you
molest
me with your incessant talk of marriage—”