Читать книгу The Quality of Mercy - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 14

Manuel de Andrada knew they were plotting his demise. He could feel evil vapors swirling about his room. It was the same aura he had sensed before his defection from Don Antonio’s service, and it filled him with dread.

Twas only a matter of time.

He shivered under his counterpane, his winter nightshirt itchy, sewn from frieze cloth—a pauper’s garment. Marry, how it irritated his skin! Dr. Lopez had not the decency to give him one woven from flax, the miserable wight. Throwing the blanket atop his head, de Andrada bunched himself into a tight knot and began his ritual curses.

Curse Don Antonio—his former master. A man he had fought for, spied for, a man whom he had almost given his life for … Almost.

Curse King Philip—a weak old wretch whose generosities were as shriveled as his face. De Andrada remembered his last visit with His Majesty, kissing the bony hand, sitting at the side of the black, velvet wheelchair. The royal features had been as hard as stone, the eyes as small as a rat’s. Cold, calculating, and stingy. Did the King not recognize the service that he—Manuel de Andrada—had performed for him?

He had spied against Don Antonio for Philip, had even bribed a helmsman to deliver the Pretender to the Throne of Portugal into the hands of the Spanish king. But the note had been found. Though written in special ink, it had been deciphered. His treason against Don Antonio—who was now in exile, somewhere in Eton, de Andrada had last heard—had landed him six months in the Tower.

Had that been part of Lopez’s plan to do him in? Had Lopez only rescued him because he had known about the doctor’s mission? Had Lopez been afraid that he—de Andrada—would be of loose lips?

He thought a moment.

No, de Andrada thought, decidedly not. Lopez had been a true healer back then—kind and true-hearted. It was Lopez who’d secured his release from prison. The doctor had taken him into his own home, fed him fresh meats, clothed him in vestments that didn’t itch. Had Roderigo not intervened in his behalf, he would have been behalved.

But curse Lopez now. He had dealt deceptively with his faithful servant—Manuel de Andrada—just like the rest. Though Lopez professed that he was a guest in his house, without any funds, de Andrada was completely at Lopez’s mercy. Aye, the doctor had turned into a witch doctor. Roderigo Lopez had beguiled him, forced him to act as a go-between with the King of Spain, inveigled him into his Jew-saving intrigues. And now, after months of dedicated work, de Andrada was being discarded, tossed out the window like shit in a chamberpot.

He sighed. In his life he’d been employed by so many, turned traitor to so many. It was hard to keep them all sorted.

How would the doctor arrange the death—his death? An accidental fall from a horse? Did not the groom look at him with naughty eyes? When had that been? A week ago? Two weeks? Aye, when Saturn had been in Pisces, the sun sign of his birth. A bad omen!

He rolled over onto his back and groaned.

Poison perhaps? Aye, poison was a favorite pastime of the physician to the Queen. De Andrada remembered too clearly Lopez’s verbal offer to poison Don Antonio. Aye, Lopez denied it to the world, and nothing in writing could prove otherwise, but de Andrada had heard the words uttered from the witch doctor’s lips. Bottles of potions were stored in Lopez’s still room. Jugs of Indian acacia. Barrels of distilled hemlock, ripening, aging like kegs of fine wine!

De Andrada trembled.

Suddenly all was clear. Why was he always the first to be served at dinnertime, at suppertime as well? It was not as they claimed—that he was a guest, and as such, honored with the first fruits of the kitchen. Nay, his portion of food had been tainted. Slow and painful poisoning!

The realization of why he’d been so ill of late.

Marry, it was so logical now. They hated him. Had he been invited to the house of the doctor’s brother-in-law?

No.

The reason for the exclusion?

It could only be treachery against him. He was wasting away on a stiff straw pallet, racked with fever and pain brought on by poison, while they laughed at his impending death.

He gasped and coughed, trying to bring up his supper. After a minute of retching, he gave up. The juices of his stomach had eaten up the stew hours ago.

The stew, he thought. He recollected tiny pieces of fleshy vegetable mixed with roots, leeks, and mutton.

Mad apple!

He shuddered. Had the stew contained eggplant as well as rat’s bane? Poison was not enough for the doctor’s delight. He was trying to drive him mad as well!

He’d take no more meals with the evil ones!

Suddenly he smiled. He was safe—at least temporarily. How much he had overheard! How many “secret” letters he had read! How much he knew! Lopez had disregarded his own rules—destroy anything written, talk softly, trust no one.

And then there was Nan Humbert—the Ames’s chambermaid. All he had to do was pray with the withered, Puritan biddy and she’d sing much about the family whispers. She had bigger and better ears than he did.

De Andrada started to plan his defense.

Who was Lopez pitted against? Who loathed Lopez as much as Don Antonio … No, that wasn’t it. Who loathed Lopez more than he detested the doctor himself—and had the power to turn his hatred into action? Certainly not Lord Burghley. He and Lopez had become friends of late. Not his crookback son Robert Cecil either.

Who?

Why, the ambitious red-haired youth with the fair face and the choleric temperament.

Essex!

He would ingratiate himself with Essex. Offer to spy against Lopez in order to secure the lord’s favor.

The smile widened to a grin.

Essex. Such an impetuous cock. He’d do anything to advance his War Party. It was no secret that the lord longed for war—for an astounding military victory over Spain, with him at the head of the troops. How Essex hungered for power, the cheers and adulation of his countrymen, the admiration of his peers. How he ached to win the hand of Eliza. Oh yes, it was the crown of England that the lord desired. It was no secret at all. Even Her Majesty knew his wants.

But the High Treasurer, Lord Burghley, and Lopez were obstacles, both secretly advocating peace with the King of Spain to Her Majesty. Lord Essex was bound to welcome his help, would receive Manuel de Andrada with much cheer, heaping angels upon him as payment for well-executed spying.

Of course, there was the small matter of Antony Bacon, Essex’s spy master. De Andrada would have to convince him that he was trustworthy. Bacon was a clever man, exceedingly wary. But hadn’t he, Manuel de Andrada, fooled other equally clever men? Bacon was but one small obstacle to overcome.

De Andrada felt confident and congratulated himself for a scheme so brilliant.

He hugged himself harder, tighter, squeezing his knees against his chest.

Eat no food. Not even the fruit in the bowl.

But he was hungry.

One bite of apple?

Nay, do not succumb. It is all vile.

A half bite?

Not even a lick.

He would not give up without a fight! He would scrape and bite and claw and kick, but he would not give up without a fight. If he would lose his head, so would a witch doctor.

Rebecca lay atop her feather mattress, wondering how her father was planning her future. She had no idea how late it was as she couldn’t see the sand glass on the mantel opposite her bed. Yet she refused to light her candle, consuming solace once again from the darkness. Her chamber walls, like those in her uncle’s Great Hall, had been draped in black cloth, hiding the arras work and tapestries. She felt as though she were sleeping in a bat’s cave. The sole illumination came from moonbeams streaking through her bedchamber’s window. They fell upon the table next to her bed, highlighting the pitcher and washbasin on the tabletop. Outside, the winds whistled through the shutters, swayed the boughs of the newly budded trees, kicking up eddies of dirt and dust, a moving sketch done in charcoal and framed by the window sash.

Her future. If only she had some control over her destiny. Her life, always in the hands of another—her elders, her cousins, her brother, God—in any hands but hers. Were her hands any less capable than Benjamin’s, than Dunstan’s or Thomas’s? But her hands had the misfortune to be attached to the body of a woman.

She swallowed back tears, cursed her lot in life. A moment later she broke into sobs, feeling sudden shame at her rantings. Why had she been allowed to live and her betrothed taken in his prime?

Poor Raphael, how did you meet your end?

Rebecca had loved him because it had been her duty. She had addressed him with a modulated tone of voice, greeted him with smiles, suffered his dark moods in silence. She knew it was his work, not she, that had been his true passion. Life was a mysterious animal. In the end it was his passion that did him in. She worried that the passion might also destroy her dear Miguel.

Miguel was her distant cousin but her brother in spirit. He’d never been a lover of women. Yet he was also a dutiful son. If their fathers wished them to wed, they would wed. And what a mockery that would be.

There was a knock on her door, her mother’s whisperings. Rebecca forced herself upright, unlocked the door, then fell back atop her counterpane. Sarah Lopez, clad in her bedclothes, entered the bedchamber and sat on her daughter’s mattress. A moonbeam fell across her face, turned her cheeks ghostly white. Her eyes looked so sad, but Rebecca had never remembered a day when they had looked happy. Sarah brushed her waist-length gray hair off her shoulders and touched Rebecca’s hand. It was rigid and cold.

“Under the covers, Becca,” Sarah ordered gently. “I’ll not allow you to grow ill from the frigid air. Tis a tomb inside here—dark and wintry. I’ll call the chambermaid and have her rekindle the hearth immediately.”

Rebecca squeezed her mother’s hand. “How can I allow myself warmth and comfort when Raphael sits for eternity in an icy bed?”

Sarah pulled back the bedcovers. “Inside, little one, I prithee.”

Rebecca slithered underneath the down blanket. Sarah drew the spread up to her daughter’s chin.

“I’m not half the clever wordsmith that you are, Becca,” spoke Sarah. “I’ve stayed up for hours trying to find proper words of solace, yet my mind is as empty as a newborn babe’s. Tell me what to do to comfort you.”

Rebecca didn’t answer. Her mother’s voice, though soothing, sounded so weary. It saddened Rebecca to think that she’d brought any more woes to her mother. She embraced her mother and told her she loved her.

Sarah said, “You are my joy, Becca. All I desire is happiness for you and Benjamin.”

Rebecca knew this to be the truth. She’d never seen her mother engaged in idle play. Sarah’s life revolved around Father and his activities, around her and Ben.

Rebecca asked, “Has Father made mention to you of my future?”

“He has yet to return home from Uncle Jorge’s.” She sighed. “I suspect he’ll spend the night there. By and by you’ll know of Father’s intention. He’s never been one to hide from you his plans.”

“I wish he’d leave me in solitude.”

“That is impossible, dear Becca,” Sarah said. “While you’re still somewhat young, the years do pass by quickly. Best to have children while your womb is strong.”

“I wish—” Rebecca realized how quiet was the night and dropped her voice. “I wish our religion allowed us nunneries.”

“Black is a color ill-suited for your complexion,” Sarah said. She kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Have you said your proper prayers for … for Raphael?”

Rebecca nodded.

Sarah said, “God will hear them.”

Rebecca asked, “Have you told Grandmama about Raphael?”

“I didn’t tell her, yet she knew,” Sarah said. “Sometimes I think my mother a witch rather than an addled old woman.”

“She is neither,” Rebecca said. “She is a marvelous woman.”

“Tis most inappropriate for you to doubt my love and affection for my mother, Becca.”

Sarah’s voice held a wounded note. Rebecca picked up her hand and kissed it.

“I apologize, my gentle mother.”

Sarah squeezed her daughter’s hand and said,

“Grandmama shows no fretting over the news. She keeps her tears inside. Yet we both know she feels deeply. Raphael had been kind to her.”

“May I spend my mourning in Grandmama’s room?”

Sarah thought for a moment. “Father would never permit it. Guests will come to comfort you—”

“They come to eat.”

“Nonetheless, you must be visible and behave appropriately. Accept their platitudes of sorrow as if they meant something to you.”

“Playact, aye?”

Sarah sighed. “Yes,” she said. “Playact.”

“At least may I pass my nights with her?”

Her mother lowered her head and said, “Father prefers to keep you away—”

“Father errs,” Rebecca interrupted. “Father thinks Grandmama’s an old harpy with a head full of mush. You know that’s not so.”

“Rebecca, my obligations come first to my master, second to my mother and children. You must learn that else you’ll make a poor English gentlewoman and wife.”

“I’d rather become not an English wife but an English spinster,” Rebecca blurted out. “I’ve no desire to marry!”

She expected to hear reproachment from her mother. Instead Sarah patted her hand in sympathy.

“Time will alter your desires,” she said.

Rebecca noticed for the first time how her mother trembled from cold. She held open her cover for her, bade her to come inside. Sarah shook her head.

“I must get back to my chambers. Father will be furious if he finds me sleeping with you. He thinks I’ve spoiled you beyond redemption.”

“In sooth, his assessment is not far from wrong.”

Sarah smiled. “Do try to sleep.”

“Mother?”

“Aye.”

“Can you request of Father to allow me to sleep with Grandmama? I’d find it most comforting.”

“I’ll pose the question to him. But I think you’ll mislike the response.”

“Plead with him.”

“I’ll do what I can, Becca.”

Rebecca hesitated, then said, “I’m being selfish, Mother. Plead not with him. Ask him most noncommitally. Don’t risk his wrath for my sake.”

Sarah kissed her daughter. “I’ll do what I can,” she repeated. “Should I call the chambermaid to rekindle the fire?”

“Not necessary,” Rebecca said. “I’m very sleepy.”

“Well then,” Sarah said. “Good night, Becca. Things will be better come the morning light.”

Rebecca nodded, watched her mother’s shadow disappear from the room. Her mother, the hours of her life divvied up by Father and his work, by her and Ben, by Grandmama. But never a moment for herself. Sarah had once told her that she thought of herself as an extra arm for the members of her family. Rebecca also remembered when her mother had confided her reveries as a young girl—how one day she’d live in the clouds made of spun sugar, fly upon the back of a golden eagle and touch the sun. Where did those dreams go? Her mother—her heart in the sky, her muscles saddled with duty.