Faye Kellerman - The Quality of Mercy

“If it is so for madam.”

“Madam is quite content.”

“Then I am as well,” Rebecca replied.

“Go to sleep,” Elizabeth said.

Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut and prayed she wouldn’t cry out her revulsion in the night.

The coach bounced slowly as it maneuvered through London’s streets, thick with people. Multitudes of human bodies, Roderigo thought, clogging up the roads, scaring the horses. In this traffic it would take at least an hour to reach his home in Holborn. And the noise was fierce. The shouts of the mongers, the banging of hammers, the clang of clashing swords, and the bells ringing endlessly, announcing births, deaths, christenings. He was getting a headache and was out of extract of thistle. Such was his luck of late.

He glanced at Rebecca, head down, sitting stoically, not saying a word since they’d left the great palace of Whitehall. He was waiting for her to speak, to confide in him about what had happened, but the girl remained fixed in her silence. And her silence only made the horrible noises outside seem louder.

“Enough of your game of handy-dandy, Becca. Open your hands and expose me your nut.”

“Pardon?”

“What happened with the Queen? What did Her Grace say to you? She did speak to you, did she not?”

“Aye.”

“What did she say? ”

“Did she not tell you?” Rebecca asked.

“Would I be asking you if Her Majesty were loquacious?” Roderigo snapped. “The Queen said nothing to me, except to complain about her health.” Roderigo kept his voice very low. With all the street noise, it was unlikely that the coachman could catch even a wisp of their conversation. But one could not be too careful in these troubled times. “Tell me what transpired.”

Rebecca hesitated, then whispered, “Her Grace extended me an invitation to become a maid of honor.”

Roderigo smiled. “This is better than I could have hoped for.” The smile widened into an open grin. “How much information you’ll be privy to, daughter. How much you’ll be able to tell me! What a weapon you shall be. Essex’s lust for war is well tempered by his lust for the fairer sex. A coy smile in his direction, Becca, and he’ll be mush. You’ll pierce his nose with your feminine wiles and lead him anywhere. He’ll confide in you, tell you things. And then you can tell me things!” He hugged her tightly. “My daughter, words can’t express how proud I feel.”

Rebecca said nothing.

“Becca, do your ears shut to your father’s words?”

“I heard them.”

“Even in our moment of triumph you’re infuriating.” Roderigo shook his head, fought off creeping anger. “If you remain as immobile as stone, so be it. When are you to leave for court?”

She remained silent.

“Becca, when are you to arrive at court?”

“I refused the offer.” Rebecca turned to face her father and blanched at the anger she saw. He was scarlet with fury. Her body began to tremble.

“I …” She swallowed, tried to bring moisture into her parched throat. “I told Her Grace how pleased I was that such a proposal was bestowed to me. But I spoke to the Queen of my grandam, how much the old woman relies on my care—”

Roderigo slapped her hard across the face. Rebecca brought her hand to her cheek, eyes burning with tears of rage and fear.

“You let a stupid, old turd of a woman stand in the way of such an opportunity?” He spat at her. “You stupid bitch !”

“I love her.”

“She is a doddering old fool, strictly your mother’s mother!”

“Father, I—”

Again Roderigo hit her. “Say nothing unless I command you to speak.”

Rebecca bit her lip and fought back more tears.

“How could you have done such an idiotic thing?” he whispered, squeezing her arm. She gave out a small cry. Roderigo took a deep breath and loosened his hold. “Tis so unlike you.”

“May I speak?” she choked out.

“You may not! ”

They continued riding without speaking, the coach suffused with the sound of daily life. Roderigo clenched his fingers around his thighs until they ached. He released his grip on himself and clasped his hands tightly.

Of all the daft things that Rebecca had ever done! She was a lunatic, just like his lunatic mother-in-law. A girl carved out of the same mad nature, built with the same will of iron. He cursed his stars—a shrew for a daughter, a shrew for a mother-in-law. And a wife who mollycoddled them both.

Enough of Rebecca’s defiance! She had to marry as soon as possible. He thought of Miguel—the preferred choice. Despite his proclivities in the Italian ways, he had shown himself to be brave and loyal. Better he be a man of substance in battle and a woman in bed than the other way around. As for Rebecca, once she was fat with child, nothing else would matter. And at least the two of them were fond of each other. He’d speak with Hector, and damn what the children thought!

Roderigo looked at Rebecca, who was staring ahead, gazing at nothing. He felt his anger abate, replaced by confusion. What possibly could have possessed her to refuse such a splendid opportunity—for herself, if not just for him. Was she a witch? He shuddered and pushed away the thought.

“Explain yourself,” he whispered. “And keep the level of your voice to a hush.”

She opened her mouth but no words came out, only small, muffled cries.

Roderigo sighed, put his arm around his daughter and pulled her near as she sobbed silently, shoulders heaving against his chest.

“Calm, Becca,” he said. “Dear girl, at the least you should have consulted with me before you offered a reason of refusal to Her Grace. I know it’s hard to leave family, but such a chance we had, daughter—both of us. Tis too much for me to fathom! I would rather you had told me nothing.”

Rebecca continued to cry against her father’s doublet.

“What did Her Grace say when you mentioned your grandam?” Roderigo asked, still hugging her.

“She said she understood my plight. In sooth, she was excessively pleased at my devotion. A young lady caring not about herself, but for an old woman’s health.”

“I’m sure it touched her heart,” Roderigo said.

“Aye.” Rebecca dried her tears on her sleeve. “She gave me a ring. It’s in my bag.”

Roderigo snatched her bag, ripped it open and pulled out the piece of jewelry—a large round ruby surrounded by stars of cut diamonds. He gaped at the ring as if it were an evil talisman and felt his hands grow cold.

Twas the exact ring, he said to himself. The very one he’d presented to Elizabeth not too long ago—a peace offering given to him by King Philip for Her Grace, demonstrating His Majesty’s sincerity toward harmony of the two nations. And now the ring had been returned to the messenger.

A shiver ran down his spine. An old jewel of Spain he needed not, especially in view of England’s current climate of hatred toward Iberia. Why had the Queen restored it to him? And why through Rebecca? Did it mean anything significant? Perhaps Elizabeth in her advancing years had forgotten that he’d given it to her in the first place.

Or perhaps, Roderigo thought, Essex had wanted the ring back in his hands.

“Father, are you well?” Rebecca asked.

Roderigo awoke from his nightmare and stared at her. “I’m quite well,” he answered.

“You’ve turned ashen!” Rebecca gasped. She dabbed his forehead with her handkerchief. “Shall I stop the coach?”

“No!” Roderigo shouted. He immediately dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’m well, Becca … I’m simply shocked by the sight of such exquisiteness. The ring must be worth over a hundred pounds.”