The Quality of Mercy by Faye Kellerman Page B

Chambers, frightened.
    “By reputation only,” Shakespeare answered. “An atheist — a foul, cunning man. And deadly with a sword.”
    Chambers swallowed back a dry heave.
    Shakespeare said, “His woman is still Mary Biddle?”
    Chambers nodded.
    “Are they still here?” Shakespeare asked.
    “No.”
    “Back in London?”
    “It seems likely. London is Mackering’s favorite place of operation.” Chambers paused, then said, “Pray, leave now.”
    Shakespeare stood up and placed a shilling atop the table. Chambers snatched it up, bit it, and placed it in his purse before Shakespeare was out the door.
     
Chapter 8
     
    All was not well with Roderigo Lopez. Raphael’s death had been a black cloud, a storm that had left no one in the family untouched. Rebecca was once again a single woman, and Miguel’s peculiarities were keeping her that way for the moment.
    But now Lopez was preoccupied with a single thought — it had been nearly a month since he’d been called to court. Though it could not be proven, he knew in his heart that the Queen was deliberately shunning his counsel, her avoidance no doubt fueled by evil words from the damnable Essex. Royal blood ran thick through the earl’s veins — another stubborn redhead with a fiery temperament.
    Roderigo spewed out curses as he paced, his heavy bootsteps stomping through the straw and echoing against the stone pavers. Normally the East Cell of his home was his favorite place of refuge — a closet where he could work or relax unmolested. Warmed by the fires burning in an exceptionally large hearth, Roderigo often sat at his desk in his favorite chair, admiring his pewter inkstand or unfolding and studying his recently charted maps. Once a week he counted his assets on his calculating board. The chamber was
his
retreat from the outside world. But this afternoon its magical spell of tranquility had been broken by the presence of his nephews — Thomas and Dunstan — and Miguel Nuñoz, sitting around his personal writing table.
    May we meet,
they had asked.
Details of the mission must be discussed at length…. And other things
.
    He knew what they meant by other things, what they dared not say in public. He had lost favor with the Queen. Only a temporary condition, he assured himself as he marched to and fro. Essex’s doing today would be his undoing in the future. He’d see to that! And to think that he had once trusted the bloodlusting dog.
    He had to reach the Queen. But how? As of late Her Grace had no need of his services. The woman was in perfect health, sound in both body and mind — as strong as a bull and as crafty as a witch.
    “A pox on him,” Roderigo swore out loud once again. “Curse Essex and everything he holds dear.”
    “Do cool your choler, Uncle,” Dunstan said, playing with his diamond earring. Good heavens, the old man was full of spleen tonight. “It does us no good if you mutter and strut.”
    Roderigo cursed again, but this time the heat of his words was directed against his nephew. “Show respect to your elder, you arrogant little maggot.” He slapped Dunstan soundly across the face with the back of his hand.
    Stung more by the insult than by injury, Dunstan stammered out words of apology. With an unsteady hand he removed a red silk kerchief from his doublet and wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead, his eyes beseeching his brother for help.
    “Do sit, Uncle,” Thomas urged. Reflexively, he rubbed his naked chin, and thought angrily of his smooth skin. Why had he been hexed — to exist without manly fur? Why him and not Dunstan? He was star-crossed, pulled too early from the womb under the wrong configuration of planets. He glanced at Roderigo, who hadn’t appeared to hear him. “Pray, do not tire yourself unnecessarily, Uncle. Better to save your energy for more noble a purpose.”
    Roderigo considered the suggestion, and upon deciding it to be a good one, sat down in his favorite oak armchair. Sarah had sewn the pillow