The Quality of Mercy (34 page)

“I must be gone,” Nan said. “Pray for me as well, señor.”

“You need not my prayers, but always I have included you in them.”

Nan bowed her head, then stood up and left. De Andrada waited a few minutes, until he was sure Nan was busy with work, then headed for the kitchen.

Wort grumbled, cursed, then handed him a tankard of beer.

“Thanks, my good man.”

Wort spat and returned his attention to a roasted goose.

De Andrada wiped the foam from his mouth and his shirtsleeve and said to Wort, “Your daughter has left the kitchen?”

Wort turned around and smiled. “I knew you were more of a man than she’d have you out to be. What’re you doin’ with that hag?”

“She tells me things.”

“Aye? Like what?”

“Like none of your business.”

“Go to the Devil,” Wort mumbled under his breath.

“Where’s your daughter?”

“She’ll cost you plenty.”

“Is she a virgin?”

Wort sneered. “She gave her maidenhead to a twiddle of a chimney sweep, the stupid wench.”

“She isn’t fair in face or form, she isn’t a virgin…. Your sow isn’t worth more than a groat.”

“But her ruttin’ is full of spirit. Or so they say, those who’ve had her.”

“Who’s had her?”

“Sir George’s sons and their fellows. They take her for free, the thieves. Once in a while the younger son, Sir Thomas, throws her a farthing or two to keep her happy. But me daughter’s more the clever one than they suspect. She filches a pence or two behind their backs. Gives it all to me.”

“Such honor your daughter doth bestow upon you.”

“Aye,” Wort said, wiping his face on his apron. “I’ve got much to cook. Either show me some silver or go.”

De Andrada flipped him a sovereign. Wort’s eye widened as he caught the coin.

“Take me not for an idiot, you churl,” said de Andrada. “I pay you much to take the wench whenever I want.”

“Aye, señor, certainly,” Wort fawned. “Anytime you want her, señor, she’s available. I’ll call her for you now, señor. Ameeeeee!”

The girl appeared a moment later.

“Go with this man,” Wort instructed. “And be very nice to him.”

Amy looked at de Andrada’s cold eyes, his lupine smile. She gulped and nodded. De Andrada lifted her onto the counter, raised her skirt, undid his codpiece and shoved deep inside of her. Wort gaped as de Andrada tore at his daughter’s dress and squeezed her large breasts. De Andrada copulated quickly, withdrew a minute later, then turned to Wort.

“I wanted to make sure she was worth what I paid you.”

Wort said nothing, staring at his ravished daughter. Her eyes were blank, void of tears.

“I’m talking to you, you filth,” de Andrada said.

“Aye,” Wort said, returning his attention to de Andrada. “Was she… Was it good?”

“I overpaid,” de Andrada announced. “But twas not the first time I’ve been cozened, and shall let it pass.”

He lowered Amy’s skirt, pulled her off the counter and held her hand. “To the buttery, girl. There we may be alone and can continue our merriment at a much slower pace. You’ll be needing a lesson or two on how to truly please a man.” De Andrada slapped her arse. “But we have much time — hours of it, wench — and I’m a patient teacher.”

As they left, the girl gazed over her shoulder, into her father’s eyes.

The hag poked Rebecca in the ribs with one of her walking sticks. The young girl looked up from her book, slid to the side of the gazebo bench and said nothing. The old woman sat down.

“Absorbed in your own thought of late,” she said. “You’ve not said much to me this past month, girl. Nor have you visited with me.”

“I spent Midsummer’s Eve with you.”

“That was what? Two weeks ago? It’s now the second week in July.”

Rebecca ignored her grandam’s scolding, though she knew it was well deserved. She had been keeping to herself. Ever since that dreadful night when Father caught her and Shakespeare dallying in the garden. They’d been locked in an embrace when her father had appeared and a terrible scene had resulted — one too freshly painful for her to dwell upon. Her father had forbidden her to see him again, forbidden her to leave the common ground, even had the audacity to hire a man to keep watch over her movements. She’d become a prisoner in her own home, and told Grandmama what she thought of the arrangement and her father.

“He’s revolting!” she announced.

“You speak harshly without reason, Becca,” the hag said.

“Has he turned you against me as well, Grandmama? Have I lost my only ally?”

“You insult me,” the old woman said.

“Why do you defend Father?”

“Because his punishment against you was just.”

“Bah!” Rebecca angrily picked up her book.

“Becca, freedom carries with it responsibility—”

“Dunstan carouses often!” Rebecca interrupted. She knew she was being disrespectful, but she pressed on anyway. “Benjamin and Thomas as well. Why are their oh-so-lovestruck spells tolerated with bemused chuckles whilst mine are subjected to scorn and severe punishment!”

“They are discreet and you are not. Your brother — whom you snobbishly consider beneath you in wit — is more clever than you in many respects.”

“I happen to fall in love with a man not to my family’s liking and I am branded indiscreet by
you,
of all people,” Rebecca said.

“I brand you as indiscreet not for falling in love but for indiscretion—”

“And what terrible things did I tell Shakespeare?” Rebecca cried.

“Are you going to listen to me or is my breath going to fall upon deaf ears?”

Rebecca bit her lip and said nothing.

Grandmama touched her granddaughter’s hand, feeling sympathy for Rebecca’s doomed love. In a kind voice the old woman explained that she’d overheard everything that terrible night: Roderigo’s cursing, Rebecca’s crying, Shakespeare’s shouting.

She said, “Becca, I heard your Shakespeare shout about Miguel’s peculiar habits. How did he become aware of Miguellito’s preferences if you didn’t tell him?”

Rebecca reddened with shame. Yes, she’d been tipsy at the time it had slipped out. But what of it? It was the truth. She said, “I merely mentioned, once, in passing that Miguel was… peculiar. Everybody who knows Miguel is aware of his nocturnal visits to
those
kind of taverns.”

“Miguel’s father doesn’t know about his son’s visits to
those
kind of taverns.”

“Uncle Hector wasn’t there that horrible night.”

“And if he would have been, would your Shakespeare in his fit of fury have stopped himself?”

“Shakespeare was heated. Father said atrocious things to us. He never gave us a chance to explain.”

“Suppose Miguel had heard what Shakespeare proclaimed loudly to your father?” the hag suggested. “How do you imagine Miguel would have felt?”

Rebecca lowered her eyes. How would he have felt? Devastated. Miguel trusted her, and she had gossiped behind his back. It was inexcusable and she knew it.

“But I love my Willy!” was all she could answer.

“Is love a sufficient reason to embarrass Miguel?”

Rebecca was silent.

The hag studied Rebecca. She had that
same
look in her eyes that the old woman’s sister had once held — stubborn, willful. Love was all that mattered. Piss on that. The crone said angrily, “What else did you tell your
Willy
?”

Rebecca was taken aback by the venom in the old woman’s voice. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Did you happen to leak out any other family secrets?”

Rebecca blushed and said, “No.”

“You lie in your throat, girl. What did you tell him?”

“Nothing of any significance.”

“By God’s sointes, Rebecca, what
insignificant
trifles flowed from the cracked dam of your lips?”

Rebecca suddenly threw down her book and buried her face in her hands.

“You told him, eh?” the hag said coldly.

“No!” Rebecca started to cry. “Yes… I mean no. I told him nothing that would do us in. I swear to you, Grandmama, we mostly bespoke soft words of love.”

“What did you
tell
him, for God’s sake?”

“I… once I told him… twas the first time we were together in the city. I was drunk and spoke foolishly, I admit it. He… he thinks we’re secret Papists.”

“Good Lord—”

“It doesn’t matter to him.” Rebecca pulled a lace handkerchief from her purse and dried her tears. “Grandmama, the North is full of secret Papists. No one concerns themselves with the Catholics.”

“No one?” the hag said, tapping her stick against Rebecca’s leg. “Only scarecrows were hung in ’sixty-nine?”

“That was different,” Rebecca stammered. “The North… those northerners were in open rebellion against the Queen.”

“So you did no harm by telling your Willy that we’re Papists, eh, Becca?”

“I didn’t say that,” Rebecca said, frustrated. “I didn’t
tell
him we’re Papist. He assumed it because—” She stopped herself. The hag grabbed her shoulders and yelled,

“Why did he assume it, girl!”

“Calm yourself, Grandmama,” Rebecca begged. “Your face is flushed. My God, you’re trembling.”

The old woman released Rebecca’s shoulders. She folded her skeletal hands into fists, tears streaming from her eyes. Rebecca held the old woman, feeling such deep love for her. She knew how much her grandam had suffered for her religious beliefs, how she’d been imprisoned in the Old Country. Rebecca could understand how such circumstances could permanently cloud her trust in the Gentile. But England was not Portugal, and she told the old woman this.

“No one is going to burst into our house and arrest us because of our silent prayers!” Rebecca said.

The hag pushed her granddaughter away.

“And you believe that?”

“Yes.” Rebecca kept her patience. No sense in becoming overwrought. “Our queen wouldn’t allow it.”

“You think the English would show sympathy to the Jew?”

“You’re twisting my words.”

“At best, we would be deported, Becca. As Jews are not allowed in this country. At worst—”

“The nobility knows our bloodline. They know that Solomon Aben Ayesh — the Jewish duke — is our uncle. The Queen entertains him royally. Many a lord has passed him in court and has wished him — and Father and Uncle Jorge — a good morrow. They don’t care what we do in private.”

“Not yet.”

“Your fear — this family fear — about being discovered is unfounded.”

The hag’s eyes hardened. “Is that so?” she said. “And how do you know that our fear is unfounded?”

Rebecca didn’t answer her.

The hag said, “Mayhap it’s unfounded because you wish it so?”

“Grandmama,” Rebecca said. “I pray you to believe me. Shakespeare can keep a secret.”

“Let me tell you something about secrets, Becca,” Grandmama said angrily. “I spent eight years of my life in a Portuguese dungeon because my sister could not keep secrets. It happened Yom Kippur, of all days, and my spoiled sister did not desire to fast as ordained by God. In a tearful fit of anger at my parents, she informed her Viejo Christian lover that her family was forcing her to starve. She went on to explain our old customs to him. On our fast days we greased our utensils and trenchers to make it appear as though we’d eaten. That we secretly changed the bed linens on Friday day. Small things they were, eh? But it was enough to mark us as heretics — Judaizers. And you know what her drunken scum lover did? He went and reported us to his priest. We were all arrested, including my sister, who was shown leniency only because she’d borne witness against her parents. Ah, but God wrought a final revenge on her soul. She was forced to watch her parents sizzle on the stake — roasted and blackened like lambs on a spit. She spent the rest of her life living with that horrid image. All because she could not keep secrets!”

Rebecca covered her mouth. Never had Grandmama spoken so openly about her wretched experiences in the Old Country.

“Shall I tell you about my life in a dungeon, Becca?” the hag continued in a hoarse whisper. “What your father — whom you dismiss as revolting — had insisted I keep from you.”

Rebecca said nothing. Her body began to shake. She knew she was about to hear something horrible.

Grandmama said, “You’re a woman who has yearned to be a man. Now act like one and listen. I’ll tell you what your father and Uncle Jorge have told your brother and cousins.”

Rebecca put her arm around the old woman and stroked the wrinkled cheek. Her grandam, so old and tired. “I never, never wanted to be spared for my own sake. I do want to hear your story. I
need
to hear it. It’s my history as well.”

Grandmama nodded. She spoke softly as Rebecca rocked her. She explained that after her entire family was arrested, the men of the Holy Office tried to extract a confession of Judaizing from her. When she refused, they resorted to their torture. The old woman felt Rebecca tense. She took her granddaughter’s hand and kissed it. Rebecca had to know… she
had
to know. Otherwise, how could she learn the mind of a Gentile? Grandmama said,

“First they tied my wrists behind my back, attached my bound hands to a
strappado
— a pulley — and hoisted me off the floor. Left me dangling like a cobweb on the ceiling for hours, Becca, for
days,
it seemed. Finally the men of the tribunal felt me ready to confess. They lowered me to the ground and brought over a scribe, urged me to admit my guilt before them and God. I spat in their faces and resisted. The Inquisitor — not the Grand Inquisitor himself, but a subordinate anxious to prove himself holy — grew very angry. He attached weights to my ankles and once again raised me to the ceiling. I hung there for… I don’t remember how long it was. Then a henchman lowered me to the ground with sudden jerks that uprooted my arms from their sockets, and pulled me up again.”

Rebecca felt her stomach turn sour. She kissed her grandam’s frail little hand and begged her to stop. It was too hard on her. But the hag waved her quiet and continued her story. Again and again the torture was repeated but never to the point of death. A doctor closely guarded her life.