The Quality of Mercy Read Online Free PDF Page B

so-named mourners — not a tear had been shed. Sheer hypocrisy, she thought. They come not to console, but instead to gorge themselves or chat idly about the weather. Let them take a stroll if the chill occupies their thoughts so. Let them leave, so the air inside will clear of their foul odor and overbearing perfume.
    Through her long black veil she eyed Hector and Miguel steeped in sadness. They were large men made small by black sorrow. Her heart ached for them — father and brother — so deep was the intensity of their loss. Rebecca remembered the swift death of Raphael’s mother, Judith. She’d been no more than a little girl at her mother’s side, but nevertheless recalled the ashen face, the bloody legs with a dead child between them. The memory had haunted her for years. Now, ironically, she was thankful that Judith had died and been spared the pain of seeing her firstborn dead.
    How she wished she could hold Hector and Miguel in her arms, sing them sweet lullabies and take away the anguish. But to perform such an act of solace was to confess that they were more affected than she by Raphael’s death. Even though this was true, she didn’t dare admit it.
    Raphael. Since she had to marry — and he had been forced to wed as well — their union would have been as good as any. He’d been a sweet, sweet lover with a randy laugh, very adventurous under the sheets. But there had been another side to him, dark and brooding. Unlike Miguel, Raphael had a terrible temper, and though he had never struck her, he’d come close more than once. Rebecca learned early in their relationship to stop asking him questions about the mission. Her betrothed, always burdened by worldly matters.
    Though Rebecca mourned his death, she was relieved by the aborted nuptials. Unlike most of the girls her age, it had never been her dream to marry, to become the perfect English gentlewoman. All she could see was young girls turning older than their years, weighted down by pregnancy that turned into obesity. Fat and saggy, disgusting in the eyes of husbands who leered and groped after smooth, supple bodies. And the bairns, crying and wailing, drooling cheesy spit.
    And then there was the permanently etched fear of ending up as had Judith — the women and girls staring at
her
corpse.
    Rebecca knew her reprieve from wedlock was temporary. It was only a matter of time before Father replaced Raphael with another — Miguel, most likely. Once married, she would have to obey her husband without question. It was her duty. But for now, unexpectedly released from marital obligations, she felt like a wild horse destined for domestication but suddenly let loose instead. Freedom snipping away her feelings of numbness, of sadness. Obscene as it was, she couldn’t help herself.
    Rebecca adjusted her coif, looked around the room and saw Lady Marlburn stuffing her corpulent body with comfits, licking sticky sugar off of her sausage-shaped fingers. Rebecca had been periodically observing her for an hour. The lady had consumed ample quantities of capon, duck, veal, moorcock, pigeon, and pickled eggs, washing it all down with tankards of ale. She’d be heavily purging herself tonight. The chamberpot would be filled with her putrid stools.
    Swine, they were. Keeping their close stools next to their bedposts, smelling the fetid stench as they slept. It was Rebecca’s grandam who insisted that the pots be kept away from the bedchambers and the kitchen.
    And they have the audacity to call us swine
.
    Thoughts of her grandam filled Rebecca with warmth. Though Rebecca loved her mother — she was a dutiful daughter — it was the old woman who had always been the main recipient of her affections. The hag, as she was called by everyone else, was a skeletal witch, crippled severely by disfigured feet. Toothless and wrinkled, she rarely talked to anyone, and when she did, it was usually nonsense. People thought her a bit daft, but Rebecca knew she spoke foolishly to