The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman
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when they formed me woman,” Rebecca mumbled to herself.
“You speak nonsense.” Dunstan held her hands and looked into her veiled eyes. “But these are trying times for all of us, and you especially are confused. Angry one moment, sullen or grief-stricken the next. It’s best if you say nothing until you’re of stronger mind.”
Rebecca knew he was right. She was exhausted by her contradicting emotions.
Dunstan gave the room another cursory glance. They were still talking unnoticed. Lifting her veil, he kissed her quickly on the lips. “And pray, my sweet, speak not of the mission. You must learn to silence your thoughts, Rebecca. Lips should be shields, not sieves through which excess words do escape.”
Rebecca nodded and Dunstan kissed her again. This time it was with a passion she had experienced long ago in the darkness of a hayloft, and she immediately pulled away. She felt Dunstan’s disappointment and almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
He had been her first tutor, her mentor. It was he who taught her about freedom, filling her mind with tales of his travel to the Continent, to North Africa and the East. He taught her Arabic, Italian, French, Flemish. With each language she acquired, books in the original editions soon followed. Her head became dizzy with ideas that displeased her father immensely. But Dunstan disregarded him and continued her education—in body as well as mind. Rebecca knew he was after the body all along, but he, amongst all the others, was the only one willing to take the time to teach her. So she ceded to his wishes. And he was a gentle one for the first time—calm and slow—coaching with unusual patience the clumsiness out of a twelve-year-old girl.
Rebecca smoothed her cousin’s mustache with the tip of her finger. “How are the bairns?” she asked.
“A lively brood. Grace is ready to drop another son for me. She’s a healthy woman.” A cow, he thought, but God be praised, a good one for breeding—three sons and a daughter, all thriving. Dunstan lowered her veil. “Grace is a good woman also. I thank God for the day I married her. You could learn a great deal from her, cousin.”
Surreptitiously, Dunstan placed in Rebecca’s hand a folded piece of paper.
“What is this?” she said.
“Your proper mourning prayers for your betrothed. Say them in silence before you sleep tonight. God will hear them.”
Rebecca started to unfold the paper. Dunstan placed his hand on hers. He whispered, “Not here, Becca, in private. They are written in the old language.”
Rebecca paled and quickly stuffed the paper up her sleeve.
Dunstan caught the eye of the fat Lady Marlburn and nodded. He whispered to Rebecca, “When alone, you must sit on the floor, even take your meals while sitting on the floor. You may sleep in your bed, however.”
“What happens when my chambermaid comes in my closet,” Rebecca whispered back.
“When she knocks, you get up. She mustn’t see what you are doing—ever. Our money is to be used for the mission, not for paying off suspicious maids. After she leaves, you must sit back on the floor.”
“For just seven days or the whole month?”
“Just the seven days, starting tonight. Then comes the month of lesser mourning.” Dunstan squeezed his cousin’s hand. “We cannot speak anymore. The grand dame Lady Marlburn has espied our conversation and is coming our way. Soon you’ll be besieged with ghouls. Unless you wish to converse with them, I suggest you feign exhaustion.”
Rebecca slumped in her chair. It wasn’t a hard scene to play. She closed her eyes. Blessed darkness.
By midnight only the converso men remained—six tonight because Hector and Miguel had gone home early with the women to grieve in private. The men sat around the table and waited for the servants to finish tidying the mess that the visitors had made. The wooden plank tables upon which the massive feast had rested were barren. With the fifty-foot walls covered in black cloth and a strong wind whistling through mullion-glass windows, the room seemed as desolate as a crypt. Dunstan Ames suggested that the men retire to a smaller closet, but his father shook his head, feeling too tired to move. Servants and scullions scurried about the hall, their footsteps muffled by the rushes that blanketed the stone floor. Eventually Dunstan grew impatient with their presence and shooed his father’s lackeys away.
Roderigo Lopez was nearly sick with exhaustion and worry. Thank God Rebecca had proved herself to be a strong girl. Not an easy chore. The funeral had been a long ordeal, the church service full of pomp and prayer that left the conversos noticeably uncomfortable. As professed Protestants but secret Jews, they were members of the local parish and attended sabbath services as required by the law of the land. But they tried to be as late for church as possible, sometimes not arriving until the conclusion of the service. Roderigo knew that the other parishoners noticed their tardiness. But the congregants never voiced a word of protest because the parish priest always greeted the conversos warmly. The secret Jews were paying him well. Though they breathed easier in England than in their native land of Portugal—there was no Inquisition here, praise God—they were still forced to hide their worship from prying eyes. An extremely difficult task. Like most landed gentry, Roderigo’s household—and that of his brother-in-law—contained many servants. Discovery of their secret religious services would brand them as Jews, which would mean deportation.
Now, with the servants gone—privacy at last—the conversos could begin the true service of mourning. Dunstan closed the massive doors to the room and the assembled men stood up from the bench, retrieved black skullcaps from their pockets and covered their heads. Roderigo looked at the men—his son, two nephews, a brother-in-law, and a distant cousin. Five grim faces, worn but visibly relieved to be away from the Gentiles. He nodded for his cousin, Solomon Aben Ayesh, to lead the services.
Lopez envied Aben Ayesh. Solomon was the only one amongst them who was an openly professed Jew—a luxury he was now afforded since he no longer lived in Europe. Solomon was short and as thin as a reed, with midnight-blue eyes which appeared black at a distance. As a diamond farmer in India, Aben Ayesh had become rich and powerful—so formidable a man that the Turkish court had rewarded him with the title of Duke of Mytilene. His network of spies was well known throughout the Continent by monarchs who ignored his religious beliefs in order to secure his confidence and, by extension, his privied information. Even though Lopez, as the Queen’s physician, held an enviable position in England, he had none of Aben Ayesh’s religious freedom and independence.
Roderigo listened to Aben Ayesh’s prayers said in Hebrew, then repeated the words out loud. Aching, he felt all of his sixty-eight years. He sucked in his overhanging belly—his stamp of wealth—and straightened his spine. When praying to God, one should stand erect. The Almighty had been kind to him—a good wife and two living, healthy children, one of them a son. God had been good to him physically as well. The hair atop his head was still plentiful, and his skin was nearly wrinkle free, as if Father Time had aged him in leap years. His beard remained as dense as moss and youthfully colored—deep burgundy mixed with rust and wisps of silver.
Roderigo thought back to his first shiva—the official ceremony of Jewish mourning. It had been a clandestine affair in Toledo, held for a cousin burnt as a heretic. Roderigo had just turned thirteen, the age of Jewish manhood, and had been told only recently of his converso bloodline by his parents. Marry, what a revelation that had been! Despite the shock, and danger, that lay ahead, Roderigo decided to remain faithful to his forefathers. He wanted to be a healer of mankind and chose to study medicine—the learned art of the Jewish people. He entered the Universidad Literaria de Salamanca in Spain, graduating with high honors and a medical degree.
Desiring more liberty for his secret practices, Roderigo moved to England during the first years of Elizabeth’s reign, hoping to find relief from the Inquisition; the Virgin Queen was known for a tolerant monarch. As long as her subjects