Читать книгу The Quality of Mercy - Faye Kellerman - Страница 19

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.

“And you never volunteered, you plant. The girl has brains under her coif. You must have been away from home the night she was conceived.” The Queen prodded Rebecca in the ribs with her toes. “When you are done with my feet, you may proceed with my hands.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Elizabeth picked up the jug, poked through the wax seal with her finger, and sniffed the contents. “What’s in here?” she asked suspiciously.

“Four spoonfuls of the juice of red nettles, eight of ale, thirty grains of nicra picra, and a half pint of aqua vitae.”

She handed the container to Rebecca. “Taste it for me, my dear.”

“It would be my honor, Your Grace.”

Rebecca took a healthy swallow and passed it back to the Queen, who looked at Roderigo with a sly smile.

“It has been rumored that you have a special penchant for ratsbane and Indian acacia, Ruy.”

Roderigo turned white and coughed.

“Madam, I’ve—”

“Oh, stow your mouth!” Elizabeth laughed. She took a gulp of the medicine. “No matter,” she said. “I trust you. For your daughter’s welfare if not for mine. Tell me, what do your spies in Iberia say about His Majesty, King of Spain?”

“His treasury lessens daily, his navy is in ruins, the sailors poorly paid and mutinous. He has no means for war. He knows when he has been bested.”

“Go on, go on,” Elizabeth commanded.

“His Majesty is much bothered by the French Protestant Henry of Navarre and continues to stare wistfully to the north. So does the Duke of Parma.”

“Tell me something I know not.”

Roderigo hoped his voice was steady. He said, “They comprise a stronger team than either one individually.”

“Do you think it wise for England to continue to aid France and the two-faced Navarre?” The Queen smiled wickedly. “Speak, man! Give me your opinion.”

“It is costly,” Roderigo said cautiously.

“Your ancestry shows itself,” Elizabeth said, raising her eyes. “But tis true. Our involvement on the Continent is slowly bankrupting the treasury. Not that Essex is concerned. He spends as if I were magical rains always filling the wells he calls his pockets.” She shook her head in disgust.

Roderigo said nothing. The Queen knew of his rivalry with Essex, and her comments were meant to incite a reaction from him. She was a master of playing people against each other, thus neutralizing all forces against her. When it was clear that Roderigo refused to enter a game he could not win, the Queen said,

“What does the King of Spain conspire?”

Dark circles of sweat stained Lopez’s armpits. Praise God Rebecca had remembered to add the sweating salts to the sleeves. He would be wet, but at least his body odor would offend no one.

“It is rumored that though His Majesty wars with the French king, they meet covertly—”

“The bastards!” the Queen screamed. “When?”

“I’ve heard the gossip a few days ago.”

“And why was I not informed?”

“I had not been summoned to court, madam.”

Elizabeth winced. “Damn Essex,” she muttered.

This time Roderigo smiled. It had been just as he thought. Essex had been keeping him away. And in his absence, the Queen had lost a valuable piece of gossip.

“Damn him!” she repeated. “What are we to do about this?”

She was trying to trap him again.

“Your Grace,” Lopez began, “England is the Jeweled Maiden of the Sea, the mightiest and swiftest power in centuries. All because on the throne sits a just and fair monarch who governs by divine inheritance—”

“Oh bother! You speak a lot and say little … But you have worthy spies.” She thought a moment, then said, “I hear you have a fine falconer.”

“I do, madam,” Roderigo answered.

“I have a sick bird in my mew, a fine female peregrine. See if your falconer can restore her to health. If he can, you may have your pick of her eggs.”

“Twould be my honor, Your Grace.”

“Of course it would be your honor.” She waved him away. “Go and leave me with my medicines.”

“As you wish, madam,” Roderigo said. “Shall I come by tomorrow and see how Your Grace is faring?”

“Yes, yes,” the Queen answered. “Away.”

“My most humble gratitude for allowing me the pleasure of serving Your Most Holy—”

“Good, good, enough blather,” the Queen interrupted. “Now go.”

“Come, Rebecca.”

“The girl stays.”

“Madam, I—”

“The girl stays,” repeated the Queen. “Did you not hear me the first time, Dr. Lopez?”

“Absolutely, madam. It’s just that such an honor you have bestowed upon her … I am speechless.”

“Would it were so.” The Queen pointed to the door. “Be gone!”

Roderigo bowed and tried to meet Rebecca’s eyes. But hers were fixed on the brown-spotted flesh topping the Queen’s hands. He had no choice but to leave. As he stepped out into the Privy Chambers, his body was shaking uncontrollably.

Rebecca proceeded from rubbing hands to rubbing the neck and face. Though Her Majesty’s body had been prey to the ravages of time, her face still retained remarkable smoothness of skin, wrinkle-free except for small lines around the eyes and lips. Her cheeks were dry and rosy, a deeper blush than usual due to fever. She moaned softly under Rebecca’s touch.

“What say you of my condition?”

“Excuse a lowly girl’s ignorance, Your Grace, but I am not qualified to answer your question lest I err in my appraisal and cause ill to come to you. I’d rather die myself.”

“Answer it anyway,” Elizabeth commanded.

“If Your Grace insists, I’d say that madam is heavy with choler. Your skin is hot and dry. The phlegm that Your Grace spits is a sign of recovery being moist and cool. Madam must drink. Pints and pints of clear cistern water mixed with aqua vitae. It will bring on more phlegm and keep the humors in balance.”

“Your hands are so young.” Elizabeth held them to her cheek.

“Do they cool you, madam?”

“Indeed they do.”

“Then I shall keep them on your face all night whilst you sleep.”

Elizabeth smiled. “If thy hands are cool and bring relief to thy Queen, how much more so thy body.” She rang for one of her ladies-in-waiting. The girl who entered the chamber this time was young, thin, and pockmarked from recent disease.

“Undress the girl,” the Queen ordered.

Rebecca froze.

“Go on, little goose.” Elizabeth pushed Rebecca upward. “Stand up and allow yourself to be served.”

On wobbly feet, Rebecca rose. She felt the points of her sleeve being loosened, her bodice coming undone. Off they dropped to the floor, followed by her skirt—a velvet puddle around her ankles. Trembling, she stood in her chemise and stockings.

Elizabeth smacked her dry lips. “Continue,” she said to her attendant.

Rebecca felt her knees nearly cave in.

Off came her undergarments until she was naked, her body lithe and silky, a feast for Elizabeth’s gleaming eye. The woman looked as lecherous as Dunstan. Bile rose in Rebecca’s throat.

“You may go,” the Queen said, dismissing her maid. “Come here, Rebecca. The raw air causes you to shiver.”

With no other alternative, Rebecca forced a smile and obeyed the command.

“Such lovely teeth,” Elizabeth remarked. She held open her coverlets, and Rebecca slid under them. “Smile for me again.”

Rebecca smiled. The old woman’s breath smelled of ale and garlic.

“Lovely, lovely teeth.”

“I would give them to madam, if I could,” Rebecca said softly.

“You really are a dear girl, aren’t you.” Elizabeth ordered Rebecca to turn over, then pressed her sagging belly against the smooth arch of the young girl’s back, grinding her hipbone into a firm buttock. Her arms embraced Rebecca, her hands cupped full, soft breasts. She lowered her left hand and tucked it between Rebecca’s legs, a finger poking up into the internal folds of her womb. Ah, to be young again. The girl’s body was so lovely, so cool. She closed her eyes. “Are you comfortable?”

“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.”

“Take it, Father.”

“Marry, no!” he said. “I wouldn’t think of such a thing, Becca.”

She was taken aback by the vehemence of his refusal.

“I’m flattered by your offer, Rebecca,” he explained. “Tis simply to say that the ring is yours.”

“It would do me pleasure if I could give it to you.”

“No, daughter, I cannot take it,” he said. “But I see your heart is pure with kindness toward me. The next time we minister to the Queen, you must wear it.” He slipped it back in Rebecca’s bag and kissed her red, wet cheek. “Such a splendid piece of jewelry. Then you’ve still much favor with the Queen.”

“She said I may come to court anytime.”

“Then her invitation is still—”

“Father,” Rebecca implored in a whisper, “do not force me! I pray you with all my heart, Father, please do not compel me to go.”

She began to sob again.

“Becca, my love …” Roderigo cleared his throat, touched by her emotional cries. “No one will force you to leave the family you hold so dear. But you must tell me why. You’ve always been so headstrong, so independent, having shown in the past no need of my advice or assistance. Explain yourself to me.”

Rebecca was silent. How could she begin to tell him? Of the Queen and her perverted ways. Of her foul breath, slimy hands, and serpentine tongue. Her father wouldn’t believe her, no matter how she’d insist it to be the truth. The worst insult under heaven—to be called a liar.

“I cannot express it into words.” She wiped her tears with her handkerchief and sniffed the spicy aroma of her pomander. Would that it could remove the stench of the old woman from her nostrils. And Rebecca knew that odor was not a condition of advanced age. Grandmama smelled as sweet as the rosewater she bathed in.

Roderigo hugged her again. “Never mind. As long as the Queen bears no ill will toward you.”

Or to me.

“None whatsoever, Father. I assure you.”

Rebecca had made certain of that. She’d accommodated the Queen’s every whim, quenched her every desire. The memories made her weak in the stomach.

Roderigo put his mouth against his daughter’s ear and whispered, “She really is a wretched old harpie, is she not?”

For the first time in twenty-four hours, Rebecca smiled sincerely.