LITMIR.BIZ

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would have learned to love him.”

      “I’m not denying that,” Rebecca said. “Some note in my voice has offended you. I pray you to pardon me.”

      “I don’t want apologies, Becca. I simply want you to wed for your own sake. Find a suitable man that pleases you. Because if no man is to your liking, you’ll simply have to marry one you dislike.”

      “Father—”

      “No more said about it!”

      Roderigo curled the tip of his beard with his finger, cleared his throat, then said, “I’ve received word that Uncle Solomon has safely arrived in Turkey.”

      “Thanks be to God,” Rebecca answered quietly.

      He sighed and tried again. “Did I tell you about the letter that your brother sent me?”

      “Two times. Ben is well and is enjoying Venice. He eats a great deal—less meat, more bread.”

      “Did I tell you about their eating geegaw—a fork they call it. They spear their food—”

      “Aye, you told me.”

      “Ben said they eat using these toys for fingers because their hands aren’t clean.” Roderigo laughed.

      Rebecca was not amused. “Shall I go now?”

      “No. Your beauty warms my bones,” said Roderigo. “Stay. And do not sulk.”

      “As you wish.”

      “Stubborn girl,” Roderigo muttered.

      Before Rebecca could reply, Martino walked in the room, panting with excitement. A gentleman wearing royal livery had arrived with a message to deliver to Dr. Lopez. Rebecca stood up and looked at her father. His face held an expression of concern mixed with excitement. At last. Some word from the Queen. It was, of course, a double-edged sword. Father had been summoned, but for what purpose? Rebecca’s heart started hammering, her head suddenly felt light. Please God, let all be well.

      Roderigo commanded Martino, “Let him in. But give me some minutes to make myself acceptable.” To Rebecca he said, “Dress me quickly.”

      Immediately she began to truss his points, lacing firmly the ribbons of his gown.

      “Where are your shoes?” she asked.

      “My boots are—”

      “Nay, Father, not your boots. Your velvet shoes—the ones topped with roses.”

      “Need I my velvet shoes?”

      “Father!”

      “They are in my bedchamber.”

      “I will retrieve them along with your garters. And a new ruff as well. The one you wear sags pathetically under the weight of your beard.”

      She was off. He was elated. The Queen had sent for him. Was Essex out of favor? Did she desire to use his secret contact in Spain? Did she need news from Solomon Aben Ayesh’s well-connected band of Levantine spies? Did she simply desire his counsel?

      Suddenly he stopped and felt a cold shiver run through his body.

      Could the Queen be actually ill?

      Perish the thought! If her life ended, so would go all his power.

      He picked up his bag and checked its contents. A few elixirs, a few powders. He was lacking the necessary medicines—the purges, leeches, potions, poultices. Thank God Rebecca and Sarah were so meticulous in stocking the stillroom.

      Rebecca was back with a new ruff and his shoes. Quickly she placed multiple layers of lace and wire around his neck. Her father seemed calm, he wasn’t trembling or breathing hard, but his color seemed unusually flushed. Her own fingers were stiff. God give him strength, give her strength. Let this be a portent of good things to come.

      “My medicine bag is nearly empty,” Roderigo told her.

      “Tell me what you need.”

      Roderigo listed the medicines: a jug of leeches, trefoil, thistle, walnut shells, cheese mold, fungus on rye—women of that age are known to have bleeding of the privates.

      “Perhaps a sprig or two of parsley mixed with dragon water,” Rebecca suggested. “The condition of Her Grace’s teeth is quite poor.”

      “Aye, parsley with water, and dried mint as well. And my special purge.”

      “Done,” said Rebecca. “Shall I ask Martino to show in the messenger?”

      “Aye … wait.”

      Rebecca stopped.

      “Am I presentable?” Roderigo asked.

      “More than presentable, Father. Comely.”

      Roderigo smiled and blew her a kiss as she left.

      The messenger entered—a young man wearing the royal arms. He was just a boy, Roderigo thought, with hardly more than fuzz for a beard. Yet Roderigo quaked before him as if he were the Queen herself.

      “Does Her Grace find herself in good health, sir?” Roderigo asked.

      “I know not,” the gentleman answered.

      “Come, sir,” Roderigo insisted. “Surely you were informed—”

      “I was told to call you to court,” the boy said. “One does not inquire about the Queen’s business if one wishes to keep his head.”

      Roderigo swallowed dryly.

      “I shall prepare to leave at once.”

      “A steed shall be waiting for you.” The messenger turned on his heels and left.

      Revolting little roach, Roderigo thought. Unbecoming for a Queen to use such young rats as messengers. The little worm had a voice as cold as snow. It had sent a shiver through Roderigo’s spine. He looked up and saw Rebecca carrying an armful of vials.

      “Come, daughter,” he said. “Tarry not. Place the medicines in my bag.”

      She did as instructed, then looped an amulet around his neck. This one was arsenic paste sewed in dog skin, she explained.

      “It will guard you against Black Death should the Queen be inflicted.” She pulled out a white crystal pebble from a jug. “Open up.”

      Roderigo stared at the crystal. His mother-in-law had always insisted that the salts protected better than any charm the “wisemen” wore. Its taste was bitter, though not as bitter as the plague, Roderigo thought. He’d treated many patients steeped in Black Death, and not once had he or a member of his family been cursed with the disease. The hag might be a wretched old thing, but her potions were strong and effective. There were already mutterings that the false Protestants were not only secret Jews, but agents of Satan as well. How else could they circumvent the ubiquitous plague?

      Marry, Roderigo thought, let them mutter. I shall live. He plucked the salt out of Rebecca’s hand and swallowed it.

      “I shall take one also,” Rebecca announced.

      “For what purpose?” Roderigo asked.

      “Oh Father,” she blurted out. “Let me come to court.”

      “Impossible,” Roderigo answered, not unkindly.

      “The Queen was very fond of me,” Rebecca reminded him. “She brought me comfits and jellied quince. She loved my singing. My virginal playing made her weep.”

      “Another time, Becca,” he said. “Once my favor has been firmly restored in her eyes.”

      “If she is ill, I can assist you. I’ve come with you diverse times to visit the ill at St. Bartholomew’s.”

      “This is the Queen.”

      “How often

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