The Quality of Mercy (70 page)

“I’ll confess!” de Gama sputtered out. “Anything, I’ll confess!”

“My good warder,” Essex said, “go fetch an official recorder incontinently.”

“Right away, m’lord,” said the beefeater.

“What do you wish to confess?” asked Essex innocently.

“The letter.”

“Yes, yes. You shall tell me about the letter.”

“I beg you, m’lord,” said de Gama. “Loosen the cramps.”

“In a moment.”

“Please—”

“I said in a moment,” Essex said testily.

De Gama began to pray. Ten minutes later a scribe entered the cell. He carried a stool, a board, a quill, a scroll of parchment, and around his neck, an inkhorn. The man was as small as a boy and moved very slowly. He looked around the chamber, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

“Tarry not, I beg you,” de Gama said. “I’ll—”

“Quiet!” ordered Essex.

Blood began to ooze from de Gama’s toes.

The scribe placed the stool under the light of the torch. Methodically, he removed the inkhorn from around his neck and uncapped it.

De Gama began to feel dizzy. Essex noticed the glassy look in the prisoner’s eyes.

“Hurry up, you fool,” Essex said.

The scribe unrolled the parchment and placed it against the board.

“I cannot last much longer,” de Gama pleaded.

“Loosen the cramps,” Essex said.

De Gama felt the dizziness fading.

“Ready, m’lord,” announced the scribe. His voice was a frog’s croak.

“Speak!” Essex ordered de Gama. “Tell me about the pearls, musk, and amber letter!”

De Gama repeated, “It was written by Lopez—”

“
Which
Lopez?”

“Dr. Roderigo Lopez,” said de Gama.

Essex clarified, “The physician-in-ordinary to Her Majesty, the Queen.”

“Slower, slower,” requested the scribe.

Essex paused a moment, then repeated the statement.

“The very one,” said de Gama.

“Go on.”

De Gama said, “The letter was written by Dr. Lopez — using the name Francisco de Torres — to his agent David in the Low Countries.”

“Slower, slower,” repeated the scribe.

Essex sighed, waited for the nod of the scribe to continue.

“What was David supposed to do with the letter?”

“Slower, slower,” repeated the scribe.

“Speak slowly,” Essex ordered de Gama.

De Gama enunciated, “David was to give it to the King of Spain. Philip the Second.”

“And what did the letter mention?”

“The cost of pearls, musk, and amber,” de Gama answered. Though still in pain, he was calmer now.

“Was Lopez intending to buy pearls, musk, and amber from King Philip?”

“Slower, slower,” said the scribe.

“Write faster, you muck-filled jack!” Essex shouted. “As you can see, the rack is empty, waiting for a man who does not perform his function adequately.”

The scribe blanched, nodded, and began to scribble as fast as he could. Essex repeated,

“Was Lopez intending to buy pearls, musk, and amber from King Philip?”

“No, m’lord.”

“No?”

“No, m’lord.”

“Then what was meant by the words pearls, amber, and musk?”

“They are code words, Your Worship.”

“Code words?”

“Yes.”

“Lopez’s secret code words?”

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

“What did Lopez mean by these code words?”

“
Pearls
was a code word for Spanish Jews—”

“Strike that,” Essex said angrily to the scribe. “Warders, tighten the cramps!”

“No, no!” screamed de Gama. “I erred.”

Essex held out the palm of his hand, signaling the beefeaters to stop. “Oh?”

“I forgot,” de Gama pleaded.

“Aye, to err is human,” said Essex. “What meant the code word
pearls
?”

De Gama said, “It meant… poison?”

Essex shook his head and mouthed the word queen.

“
Pearls
was a code word for queen,” de Gama whined.

Essex smiled. “Very good.” He turned to the scribe and said, “Did you get that down, you old turd?”

“Certainly, Your Worship,” croaked the scribe.

“What was Lopez going to do to the pearls?” Essex asked.

De Gama felt his bowels about to burst and said so.

“Shit on the floor!” Essex said dismissively. “What was Lopez going to do to his mistress, the Queen?”

De Gama tightened the muscles of his anus. God, his body was about to collapse, the pressure was still too much. His guts churned in acid. He couldn’t hold them anymore and defecated upon the floor.

Essex wrinkled his nose in disgust and repeated the question. “Dr. Lopez was planning to… scheming to poison the Queen,” de Gama whispered.

He saw Essex grin.

That was it! He had said it! Lopez was doomed
. De Gama’s confession signed not only the doctor’s death warrant, but his own as well. Anything,
anything
but torture!

“At whose behest was Lopez planning to poison the Queen?”

De Gama felt like fainting. He looked quizzically into Essex’s eyes. The lord mouthed the word Philip. In a hushed voice de Gama said,

“Lopez was planning… ach… to poison… my head…”

“Go on,” ordered Essex.

“Poison… the Queen at King… Philip’s behest.”

“Was Philip to pay him for his act?” Essex asked, then nodded yes.

“Yes,” said de Gama.

“Was the initial payment to Lopez this ring that was in the possession of his daughter, Rebecca?” Essex held up the ring and again nodded yes.

De Gama had never seen the ring before. But he answered yes.

“Do you have that all on parchment, Master Scrivener?” Essex asked gaily.

“Yes, m’lord.”

“My good yeomen warders, please release Señor de Gama from the Daughter.”

As soon as the cramps were off, de Gama collapsed upon the cool floorstones and wept.

“Now, now,” Essex chided. “You must sign the confession,
señor,
if you expect mercy.”

The prisoner scribbled his signature across the parchment.

“You confessed the deed very well,” complimented Lord Essex. “Very well indeed. Of course, you’ll be hung, as you were an accomplice to Lopez’s heinous plot. But in exchange for your free confession, I’ll guarantee you a swift death. In addition, while you wait for your demise I’ll have you placed in a suitable chamber, señor. One tall enough for a man to stand and long enough for a man to lay his body — if his knees are kept slightly bent. A cell with a fag of fresh straw for a pillow and a torch for light and warmth. A dry cell with very few rats. No window, though, I’m afraid.”

De Gama sobbed with relief.

Rebecca’s eyes peered over the top of her prayer book just long enough to see it was Benjamin who’d walked into her chamber. Without acknowledging her brother, she finished the benediction of silent devotion — the
amidah
. Grandmama had taught it to her when she was knee high, said it with her every day as if it were a special game between the two of them. Rebecca hadn’t even known what the words meant until she reached twelve. How long ago was that? Only six years?

“I was about to go back to her.” Rebecca closed the book. “How’s she been in my absence?” She regarded her brother now. He was worn out. Eyes that hadn’t held peaceful sleep for centuries.

“Grandmama slept for an hour,” Benjamin answered. “She woke up a minute ago and asked for you.”

“I shouldn’t have left—”

“You needed rest,” Benjamin insisted.

There was a tremble in his voice. His eyes were mirrors reflecting her visage. She was as battered as he. She buried her face in her hands and cried.

“Not now, Becca,” Ben whispered. “Not now.”

Rebecca continued sobbing. “Oh Ben! I’m such a wretched disappointment to everyone! And now both she and Father are being ripped away from me before I can make amends.”

She expected to hear her brother’s berating. Instead, he put an arm around her shoulders.

“
You’re
a disappointment?” Benjamin said. “Rebecca, I’m the
definition
of the word. You should have had my body. My maleness was wasted on me. Or maybe it’s your mind that is wasted on you. Either way, Providence has played a nasty game.”

Rebecca didn’t answer him, but she stopped crying.

Benjamin kissed his sister’s cheek. “Since I was not born with natural cleverness, I reasoned that all I had to do was work harder. I practiced fencing more than any man in Oxford, yet remained mediocre. I studied music and still my voice cracks when I sing. Dancing? Not a clod, but nowhere near the grace of a gazelle. And then there was my attempt to conquer the art of medicine. I saw it all in Father’s eyes — all my errors, my bungling. He never had to speak a word.” He shrugged his shoulders in acceptance. “I was born one step above the commoner and there I shall remain, destined to be forgotten as soon as met.”

“That’s not true!” Rebecca said.

Benjamin laughed bitterly. “I would have been well had Emmanuel — the family’s
rightful
heir — lived. With a son as clever as he, Father would not have noticed me. But I was all the poor man had left. And now he shall… he shall die… knowing the progeny he’s left behind is an abysmal failure.”

Benjamin’s eyes had become wet. It was Rebecca’s turn to comfort.

Her family — crumbling like stale bread. Father, locked away in the Tower. It made her faint whenever she allowed herself to think about it. Grandmama. Aye, she was old, but somehow Rebecca had always believed she’d live forever. Now the dear woman had finally tired of life.

Thomas with his limp.

Miguel with his dead arm.

Only Dunstan and Benjamin remained able-bodied, but both were crippled in the brain. Benjamin by his commonness, Dunstan by haunting nightmares of drowning, of blood and gore. Often he cried in his wife’s arms. Once he even cried in Rebecca’s — babbling about his sons drowned in the open seas, begging her forgiveness for choking her. Pathetic. Yet Rebecca had hugged him tightly, the same way she held her brother now.

Once she had held Shakespeare that tightly. But that, too, had become nothing but the past. A minute later Benjamin pulled away and clasped her shoulders. He said,

“Go to her now.”

Rebecca heard the urgency in his voice. Life was slipping away too fast… too easily.

“I’m back, Mother,” Rebecca said. “Go rest.”

Sarah turned her head away from the old woman and mouthed
Father
? to Rebecca.

Rebecca shook her head. No news had come.

Sarah seemed to wither. She dropped her mother’s hand and stood up, allowing Rebecca to take her place at the old woman’s bedside. Rebecca sat upon the stool and stroked her grandam’s forehead. It was hot and dry.

Sarah squeezed her daughter’s shoulders and left the room. Grandmama was swathed in sheets. Only her head and one tiny hand were visible. Her once-thick hair had become white wisps covering a crusted scalp. Her eyes were sunken, yet the light in them remained stubbornly alive. Rebecca tried to look cheerful, but moisture clogged her own eyes.

“None of that,” the old woman said. Her voice was as clear as daylight. “Too much of life to feel sorrowful about dying, girl…. I welcome death… like a bride greets her groom.”

“Don’t say that,” Rebecca whispered. Tears tumbled down her cheeks.

“I’ve been tortured, Becca,” said the hag. “Dragged down… drowned… burned… made a whore.” Her breaths had become shallow. “Faith kept me afloat… faith in our God… your God, I pray.”

Grandmama tried to raise her hand to dry Rebecca’s tears but dropped it in exhaustion. Rebecca picked it up and kissed it.

“Rest.”

Grandmama ignored her. She wheezed, “Merciful God… He knows I cannot live to witness another—” She stopped herself. She wanted to say “another execution,” but couldn’t bear the agony it would cause Rebecca. “Cannot live anymore,” she said. “Life’s too painful.”

The old woman moaned. “I’ve been a burden to you, girl—”

“You speak nonsense—”

“What you passed up for me—”

“Hush now,” Rebecca said. “I’ve passed up nothing. A maid at court? And what would I have done there? Served an ill-tempered old chrony with lecherous designs — idling away hours giggling and gossiping with silly girls who preen like peacocks? Nay, Grandmama. You were a convenient excuse. I should be thanking you!”

Grandmama spoke in a whisper, “Not… court.”

“Oh Grandmama!” Rebecca wept. “You’ve done so much for
me
! Instructed me in the ancient arts of our ancestral mother, Miriam. Taught me how to mix special potions and drugs known only to our people. Your knowledge made Father distinguished here in London.
Your
knowledge! Information he did not learn at his studies at the university.”

“I’ve… held you back,” the hag said.

“Stop talking,” Rebecca chided her. She felt her grandam’s forehead. It was wet now, covered with tiny droplets of sweat. She wiped it with her sleeve. “You’re tiring yourself—”

“Little breath I have, girl,” said Grandmama. Her eyelids fluttered. “Must say my piece.”

Her voice sounded distant, as if it had already left her body. She looked so frail, all the fight gone. Only the gleam in her eyes was left. A moment later that dulled.

My God, she’s fading away!
Rebecca said, “Say your piece.”

In the same distant voice the old woman said, “Faith… it kept me alive… defiant. Worked well—” She broke into a series of weak coughs.

“Sleep,” Rebecca ordered.

“Come closer,” Grandmama whispered.

Rebecca leaned in.

“Listen,” the old woman said. “Faith is what…
I
needed. Is it what
you
need?”

Rebecca was confused.

“My sweet little Becca,” the old woman cried out. “I’ve been so
blind
!… Forced you to believe in my God… You loved me and obeyed me… left behind your heart. Did I sell you lies, girl?”

“No,” Rebecca insisted. “You’re weak with illness and age, Grandmama. You’ve never lied to me—”

“I don’t
feel
God, Becca!” Grandmama coughed again. “Almost dead, and do not
feel
Him! Maybe this is it. Nothing… then what will become of me?”