Faye Kellerman - The Quality of Mercy

The Queen was in a foul mood, made even fouler the moment Dr. Lopez walked inside her bedchambers. Her Majesty’s personal sleeping closet, though modest in size, was opulent in style. The walls of the chamber were covered with silk cloth embroidered with the royal coat-of-arms. Velvet drapes sewn with silver and gold thread hung over two arched windows that provided the Queen with a view of the rose gardens. Her Majesty’s poster bed was carved from walnut, its mattress topped with down-filled counterpanes, and velvet and taffety pillows. Elizabeth sat on a throne, positioned to the left of her bed. Next to the royal chair stood a table upon which sat a porcelain water basin and pitcher, both leafed with gold.

Lopez gave the obeisance of reverence—the customary bow given to a monarch—and started to advance, but the Queen commanded him to stop.

“Who called him!” she demanded of the High Treasurer, Lord Burghley.

“But madam, you are ill—”

“You whale!” she screamed at Burghley. “You swine in black. You Puritan! Get him out of here!”

Burghley shrugged haplessly at Roderigo and their eyes met. Not a true friend, Roderigo knew. Impossible to keep one’s neck whole and trust anyone in power. But at the moment he was an ally, their connection the hatred of Essex.

“Go!” the Queen commanded Roderigo.

Her nightdress was soaked with perspiration. Yet her teeth chattered. She adjusted her wig—locks of flaming red hair knotted formally and entwined with diamonds and sapphires—then threw her sable-trimmed robe over her chest.

“You are flushed, madam,” Roderigo said. He dropped to his knees. “You are short of breath—”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion on my state of health,” Elizabeth snapped. “Did not I order you to leave? Do you disobey—” She stopped her outburst and stared at Rebecca. “You brought your daughter to my bedchamber? Here? Now? Are you mad ?”

“Your Grace—” Roderigo stammered.

“ Why did you bring her?” the Queen demanded.

“To aid—”

“So you need assistance, Dr. Lopez?”

“Why no, but—”

“Stow it!” The Queen smiled, exposing blackened teeth. She tottered over to her bed and collapsed onto the mattress, allowing Burghley to draw her coverlets up to her chin. Her amber eyes danced playfully as she stared at Lopez’s daughter.

“I will receive you now, dear girl,” she intoned sweetly.

Rebecca felt dizzy. As she approached the Queen she realized that she was trembling from head to foot. Unsteady on her legs, she managed three deep curtsies.

“You may rise,” Elizabeth announced as she held out her hand for Rebecca to kiss. “Don’t just stand there, Burghley, have someone bring the maiden a pillow so she may sit.”

“Yes, madam.” Burghley bowed and left.

“And you, ” she said, turning to Roderigo. “What good can you do me?”

“Whatever is in my power.”

“Which isn’t much, is it?”

“Too meager for Your Grace.”

She coughed up a ball of sputum and spit it into a laced handkerchief. “Your flattery is revolting,” Elizabeth said. She gestured Lopez upward. “You may rise.”

Roderigo stood but said nothing. A lady-in-waiting brought in a red pillow. She curtsied before the Queen, lay the cushion down.

A fair little wench, Roderigo thought. Rosy and round … no more than Rebecca’s age? He had stiffened with lust that now repulsed him. God’s blood, where did the time go?

He barked at the maiden, “Prepare for your Queen a posset of milk, honey, and ale immediately.”

She nodded stupidly.

“Go,” the Queen commanded her.

She curtsied and scurried out the door.

“Shake not like a cornered deer,” she told Roderigo. “Prance over here and do something.” To Rebecca she said, “Sit at my feet, my sweet. Your face is pleasing to gaze upon.”

Rebecca took the pillow and sat on the floor.

“No, no, no, you silly goose,” Elizabeth chided, then winked at Rebecca. “Though I hope you not be a Winchester goose.” She laughed at her pun. “Now tell me, dear thing: Have you been touched by the Great Pox?”

Rebecca blushed. “No, Your Grace.”

“The filthy French do give the English such lifelong gifts,” Elizabeth cackled. “Are you certain you’re clean?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You must have hordes of men competing for your maidenhead.” Elizabeth smiled wickedly. “Or should I speak in the past tense?”

Rebecca turned a deep shade of scarlet.

“Come, come,” the Queen said abruptly. “Off the floor. You may sit at the foot of my mattress.”

Rebecca did as told, then asked, “May I speak?”

“I wish you would,” Elizabeth said. “Your voice is so much more palatable than the others that surround me.”

“May I rub Your Grace’s feet with ointment? I fear they are cold.”

“A fine idea,” the Queen said, exposing her legs. The skin was pale and loose, webbed with thin blue lines. She pulled off her sable slippers and slapped her feet into Rebecca’s lap—two blocks of ice.

“Rub, dear girl,” Elizabeth commanded.

Roderigo gave Rebecca a sympathetic look, then handed her a rag, a tin of sweet-smelling herbs, and a vial of ointment from his bag. The woman’s feet had become encrusted with flecks of dirt and scaly skin. Rebecca slowly eased away the dead skin and methodically picked off the dirt with her fingernails. After the royal feet were cleaned, she began her rubbing and perfuming. The toes turned from white to pink, from pink to red. As they did, Elizabeth almost purred with contentment. Then, still playing the feline, she turned to Roderigo, arched her back and snarled,

“I feel awful.”

“The demands placed upon Your Grace are endless—”

“I know the enormities of my duties, you drooling dolt. Quit fawning me. Instead, tell me what ails me.”

“You have a fever, madam. You need honeysuckle leaves steeped in water.”

“My throat hurts.” She rubbed her neck. Her eyes suddenly beseeched Roderigo’s. “Quimsy?”

“Open your mouth, madam,” Roderigo said.

The Queen obeyed.

Roderigo raised a lit candlestick and peered down the royal throat. A moment later he shook his head no. “Your gullet is merely raw and red. No telltale signs of quimsy.”

The Queen smiled and pushed the candle away. “Get that away from my face, you jack. The light irritates my eyes.”

“As you wish.” Roderigo tried to remain calm. “The posset that I have requested shall soothe your throat. Also, I will give Your Grace something to help the fever.” Roderigo took out a small jug sealed with wax. “A spoonful every hour until the royal forehead feels cool to the touch.”

“Your little girl has grown up, Ruy,” the Queen said, wiggling her newly warmed toes. “My, how she has grown up! Why didn’t you ever do this for me?”

“Why … Your Grace never asked,” he sputtered.