The Quality of Mercy (33 page)

“You poor man,” she said. “I was so worried that you’d not come for our weekly prayer reading. Oh, señor, how much you need the Lord’s help in a time of such destitution!”

De Andrada hung his head low and sighed deeply.

Nan swallowed back tears, straightened her spine and regained her composure. “We mustn’t dawdle, señor,” she said. “The family is gone for the day, but the hours pass quickly when the mind is steeped in the words of our Lord. Come this way. There are victuals for you in the kitchen. Afterward, we’ll begin to work toward our salvation.”

“Why do you pray for me?” de Andrada asked. He’d recovered his wind but feigned a weakened voice. “I don’t deserve such a goddess to speak on my behalf.”

“They
starve
you, those blasted dogs!” She hissed as she spoke. “Christian kindness shall not tolerate such atrocities. I know what they think of God.” She lifted her eyes to the heavens and clasped her hands. “Most merciful Jesu, forgive me for my lack of compassion, but may they burn in Hell for refusing Thee as king!”

She returned her attention to de Andrada.

“They think I have not ears, but I do indeed hear. Sir George and Sir Thomas muttering their heretical prayers! And I know for fact that Lady Grace — Sir Dunstan’s wife — brought not her lastest bairn for holy baptism.”

“No!” exclaimed de Andrada.

“Aye, tis true.” Nan leaned over and whispered, “And I have eyes as well, señor. I’ve seen their hidden horns nestled in their hair.”

“Aye?”

“Aye. It’s in the blood! All of those born of an unbaptized womb grow horns.”

De Andrada felt the crown of his head, then quickly withdrew his hand.

“My goodwoman,” he croaked out. “Dr. Lopez would never be so overt as to starve me in front of open eyes. Nay, he’s much too clever a schemer for that.”

“Then how is it that you grow so wretched week to week?” asked Nan.

De Andrada clenched his neck. “The doctor tries to poison me.”

The maid gasped.

“Tis the reason for the pathetic state of my body,” he said.

“My Lord, señor. Lopez is more devil than man!” Nan exclaimed. “But let God execute judgment on him. Come, come, señor. To the kitchen.”

She grabbed his hand. De Andrada went cold at her touch — her bony hand scaly and dry. But he smiled at the sour woman as if she were a madonna.

“My angel,” he whispered.

“This way.”

Nan led him to the door of the kitchen.

Inside the air was hot and heavy and smelled of flesh and fat. Droplets of grease sprang from sizzling pans and boiling caldrons, a gray rolling fog of steam and soot hovering over the room. The master cook was an obese man of forty named Wort. His face was red and doughy, his nose oversized and dotted with black pores. He wore a tall white hat now limp with moisture, a white apron, and chose to cook without the hindrance of sleeves. His bare arms were as wide as hamhocks, hairy and coated with a layer of oil and sweat. He dropped a chicken into a pot of bubbling water, then cursed his helper, a boy of twelve.

“You worthless dolt!” Wort screamed. “I said three cups of claret, not four!” He backhanded the boy across the room, looked up and saw Nan with her señor both staring at him. “Me son,” he explained.

Nan ignored him. “Sit down at this table, señor. Wort will be fixing you some flesh for your stomach.”

Wort glared at Nan.

Nan glowered back and said, “That is, Wort will be cooking for you if we want to keep Kate the buttery maid in the household.”

“You wretched witch!” he whispered.

“You fat bull!” she countered.

“A bull I am,” Wort said, grabbing his crotch.

“You know what happens to bulls.” Nan sliced through air with her finger. “Castration!”

De Andrada closed his legs involuntarily.

“Get the good señor some food now!” she ordered.

“Stupid bitch,” Wort muttered. He turned around and backhanded another boy across the face. “You turd! Go bring me another dozen quail. And two dozen moorhens. The Lady Mary takes a fancy to its flesh.” He faced de Andrada and said, “Me other son.”

“The man is like a weed,” Nan sneered. “He drops seed wherever he blows.”

“Not in your dried-up womb!”

“I’d cut your thing off myself if you tried.”

A plump girl of fourteen entered the kitchen with a vat of butter.

“Put it over there, Amy,” Wort instructed. “No. Not next to the mutton, you cow. Next to the white flesh, the fish. You know the Lady Mary don’na like butter on her meat.” He started to say something to de Andrada but changed his mind.

“Your daughter?” de Andrada asked.

Wort nodded. A sly smile spread over his face. “The good señor is interested?”

“No, the good señor is
not
interested!” Nan barked.

“Ah, shut up,” Wort said. He spat and placed a trencher of lamb and beef in front of de Andrada.

It had been three days since de Andrada had tasted succulent flesh. He ripped the meat apart and stuffed it into his mouth. Within minutes the wooden plate was empty.

“More?” asked Nan.

“Aye, my beautiful lady. If it’s no bother to your saintly soul.”

“Nothing is a bother for you, señor,” said Nan, her thin lips becoming invisible as she smiled.

“Give him more, Wort,” Nan commanded. “The good señor is starved!”

Wort gave him a tray of chicken and duck and a bowl of boiled turnips. De Andrada finished every last morsel. Nan could see his color return to his cheeks, his eyes glow. She offered him sweets to top off his dinner.

“Go to the Devil,” Wort said to Nan. “The sweets take much time to prepare. I need every bit of marchpane for me castle and turrets. I need the sugar bread for the walls, the comfits and fruits for the cannons and doors, the syrups for the moat.”

“Give him a dish of candied violets,” Nan commanded. “I know you dip hundreds of them because your punk wench fancies them.”

“You know everything, you buswife.”

“I make it my business to know everything, you lout!”

A bowl of candied violets was angrily shoved in de Andrada’s face. He smiled and thanked the ruddy cook for the delicacies. Ah, how he savored each petal, sucking the sticky sugar off his fingers when he was done. Such a meal was especially delicious after three days of self-imposed starvation — almost starvation. In between the three-day visits, he’d sneak food from the Lopez gardens and orchards. He patted his full stomach and suggested to Nan that they return to the gardens where they were less likely to be seen by nosy servants.

Once outside, they sat on a bench by the lily pond. De Andrada said, “My good woman, I cannot thank you enough—”

“Your prayers for your soul are enough, señor. To think that I was responsible for saving it…” She handed him a book. “Come. Let us pray together.”

“Good woman, I must ask you first—”

“
First
let us give
thanks
to
God,
señor,” Nan said firmly.

“Of course,” de Andrada said. He hung his face in shame.

Stupid dried-up prune of a bitch, he thought. She probably still had her maidenhead, but who would want it?

De Andrada smiled and muttered amen.

Didn’t she ever tire of reading those prayer books, those blasted psalms? Didn’t she ever long for merriment and drink, for a stiff prick rammed up her insides?

He looked at her again, nose buried in holy words as she muttered. As if you could fill a womb with spiritual salvation. No, the woman craved not joy, only obedience.

“Amen,” he said.

He couldn’t last much longer in Lopez’s household. They were becoming suspicious of his eating habits, asked him why he picked at his food, watched his every move. The defection would have to come soon — a month at the earliest, six months at the latest. But first things first. He must get money. His dress must convince Essex and his finicky spymaster, Bacon, that he was a man of much means and wit. To get coins he must have something to sell.

“Amen,” he responded as Nan paused.

Nan heard much from careless lips, he knew. Perhaps she had heard the name of the ship that was laden with the latest stowaways from Iberia. Perhaps she knew where the galleon was due to dock — and when. Information like that could be sold to the Spanish at a dear price.

He thought of Miguel Nuñoz. De Andrada had nothing against the man save he was allied with Lopez, but it was useless to let a drop of maudlin sentiment stand in the way of a sweet business proposition. So Miguel would follow the same path as his brother Raphael — perish at the hands of the Spanish… tortured… burned at the stake.

De Andrada erased foul images from his mind, thought instead of how Miguel’s death would affect the witch doctor. The old man would cry out with pain, bemoaning his foul luck, a cursed man who had lost two sons-in-law. He’d blame Rebecca for his misfortune, as she had been attached to both men when they had died. He’d call her an agent of the Devil, and, anxious to rid himself of her evil presence, he’d sell her to a vaulting school of common whores. De Andrada would find her years later, riddled with pox and as thin and scrawny as an underfed chicken, begging him to rescue her from the horrid life she led.

Rebecca. How she held him in contempt. But one day it would be he who despised her… after he boarded her, of course. Ah, such joy is revenge, he thought gleefully.

Nan poked him in the ribs.

“Amen,” he said.

“Now let us turn to page—”

“My good woman,” de Andrada beseeched her. “I have reason to think that the family you work for is involved with nefarious activities.”

“I
know
that!” Nan said.

“Then perhaps you can tell me something. Ordinarily I’d dare not interrupt such a spiritual moment as the one that just passed, knowing that God listens to the righteous, but as this information is most crucial to my well-being—”

“Stop being so winded, señor, and ask me the question.”

“Had the heretics recently spoken with extraordinary interest of a certain ship? A Spanish galleon, perhaps?”

“They’ve mentioned many Spanish ships. The Spanish! Idol-worshiping Papists! Did you know that Mistress Rebecca, Sir George’s harlot niece, has in her possession a ring from the Spanish king? I’ve seen her wear it, I’ve heard her cousins whispering about it. She is not only a heretic, but a secret spy. May she rot in Hell. May all the Spanish rot in Hell. Not you of course, señor. You’ve been saved.”

“Blessed be to your guidance, good woman…. Have they spoken with interest about a specific ship — a galleon or mayhap a Portuguese carrack?”

Though irked by diversion from prayer, Nan nonetheless replied, “Let me think… I believe they made mention of an Italian merchant ship that is to travel through the Straits of Gibraltar.”

“And that ship has a name?”

“The
Sao Paulo
or
San Pedro
.” Nan wrinkled her forehead and closed her eyes. “The
San Pedro
it was. I remember because it had a Spanish name, may God curse it. Its final destination is to be Spanish Brussels.”

“And the
San Pedro
has a scheduled stop in England?”

“Yes, I believe it’s to stop in England.”

“When is it due to dock here?”

“Let me think. They spoke of it on Tuesday two weeks ago, and today is Thursday…” Nan began to count on her fingers. “Two, three, four… oh, and add eleven days because the Continent follows the Papist Gregorian calendar….” She looked up at de Andrada. “I believe the ship is due to dock in England in autumn. On a Wednesday… or maybe Thursday.”

“Thank you, good woman, thank you!” De Andrada leaned over and whispered, “Do you know
where
it’s due to dock?”

“Portsmouth, did they say?” Nan bit her thumbnail in concentration. “Plymouth, mayhap Dover. I don’t remember.” She said to de Andrada sternly, “We must go on with our prayers, señor. The hour grows late.”

“I shan’t delay us any longer.”

Nan said, “Let us begin.”

De Andrada smiled and turned to the instructed page. As she read, he thought of women, of their womanhood. Some had big, slobby, wet holes, others were tight and dry — perennial virgins. That’s the kind he liked best. Board ’em till their insides were dry, rub yourself raw.

He felt himself go hard.

“Amen.”

De Andrada sneaked a sidelong glance at Nan. If her hair were loosened, her lips painted, she could strike a decent pose. Her womb was bound to be tight. Maybe some night he’d sneak into the house and ravish her. Tush, would she put up a fight!

He felt himself about to explode and forced himself to listen to the words Nan read to regain his control. May the Most Merciful One shine His light somewhere. He turned the page.

If he could only sleep away such boredom without the bitch noticing it. He tried to hide his face in the pages, but she looked at him queerly and he lowered the book.

He could feign illness. Nay, the prune-faced woman would only nurse him with more prayers.

No choice but to wait it out. She was much too valuable an ally to alienate, feeding him food and gossip.

An hour passed — a horrid hour — until Nan finally raised her head.

“Much pardons, señor, but I am forced to stop now.”

“So soon?”

“Indeed, yes. The family will be back shortly and I have work left to do.”

“Such a pity!”

“Yes.”

“May I stay here an hour longer and pray?”

Nan grinned. “Aye, my good señor, you may. And feel free to ask Wort for more food if you’re hungry. I’ll leave firm instructions for him to give you what you desire.”

“You’re too kind.”

“You may do me kindness in return, señor.”

“Speak.”

“If you know of sinners, as you yourself once were, bring them to me. And with God’s help and blessing, I may clear a path of salvation for them.”

“Twould be my pleasure, good woman,” de Andrada said. “Though I fear the English have become very lax about being saved.”

“Aye,” Nan said sour-faced. “All these rich lords ever care about is the rampant pursuit of pleasure.” She added quickly, “But God save the Queen.”

“God save the Queen,” de Andrada answered.