“I love her.”
“She is a doddering old fool, strictly your mother’s mother!”
“Father, I—”
Again Roderigo hit her. “Say nothing unless I command you to speak.”
Rebecca bit her lip and fought back more tears.
“How could you have done such an idiotic thing?” he whispered, squeezing her arm. She gave out a small cry. Roderigo took a deep breath and loosened his hold. “Tis so unlike you.”
“May I speak?” she choked out.
“You may not!”
They continued riding without speaking, the coach suffused with the sound of daily life. Roderigo clenched his fingers around his thighs until they ached. He released his grip on himself and clasped his hands tightly.
Of all the daft things that Rebecca had ever done! She was a lunatic, just like his lunatic mother-in-law. A girl carved out of the same mad nature, built with the same will of iron. He cursed his stars—a shrew for a daughter, a shrew for a mother-in-law. And a wife who mollycoddled them both.
Enough of Rebecca’s defiance! She had to marry as soon as possible. He thought of Miguel—the preferred choice. Despite his proclivities in the Italian ways, he had shown himself to be brave and loyal. Better he be a man of substance in battle and a woman in bed than the other way around. As for Rebecca, once she was fat with child, nothing else would matter. And at least the two of them were fond of each other. He’d speak with Hector, and damn what the children thought!
Roderigo looked at Rebecca, who was staring ahead, gazing at nothing. He felt his anger abate, replaced by confusion. What possibly could have possessed her to refuse such a splendid opportunity—for herself, if not just for him. Was she a witch? He shuddered and pushed away the thought.
“Explain yourself,” he whispered. “And keep the level of your voice to a hush.”
She opened her mouth but no words came out, only small, muffled cries.
Roderigo sighed, put his arm around his daughter and pulled her near as she sobbed silently, shoulders heaving against his chest.
“Calm, Becca,” he said. “Dear girl, at the least you should have consulted with me before you offered a reason of refusal to Her Grace. I know it’s hard to leave family, but such a chance we had, daughter—both of us. Tis too much for me to fathom! I would rather you had told me nothing.”
Rebecca continued to cry against her father’s doublet.
“What did Her Grace say when you mentioned your grandam?” Roderigo asked, still hugging her.
“She said she understood my plight. In sooth, she was excessively pleased at my devotion. A young lady caring not about herself, but for an old woman’s health.”
“I’m sure it touched her heart,” Roderigo said.
“Aye.” Rebecca dried her tears on her sleeve. “She gave me a ring. It’s in my bag.”
Roderigo snatched her bag, ripped it open and pulled out the piece of jewelry—a large round ruby surrounded by stars of cut diamonds. He gaped at the ring as if it were an evil talisman and felt his hands grow cold.
Twas the exact ring, he said to himself. The very one he’d presented to Elizabeth not too long ago—a peace offering given to him by King Philip for Her Grace, demonstrating His Majesty’s sincerity toward harmony of the two nations. And now the ring had been returned to the messenger.
A shiver ran down his spine. An old jewel of Spain he needed not, especially in view of England’s current climate of hatred toward Iberia. Why had the Queen restored it to him? And why through Rebecca? Did it mean anything significant? Perhaps Elizabeth in her advancing years had forgotten that he’d given it to her in the first place.
Or perhaps, Roderigo thought, Essex had wanted the ring back in his hands.
“Father, are you well?” Rebecca asked.
Roderigo awoke from his nightmare and stared at her. “I’m quite well,” he answered.
“You’ve turned ashen!” Rebecca gasped. She dabbed his forehead with her handkerchief. “Shall I stop the coach?”
“No!” Roderigo shouted. He immediately dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’m well, Becca … I’m simply shocked by the sight of such exquisiteness. The ring must be worth over a hundred pounds.”
“Take it, Father.”
“Marry, no!” he said. “I wouldn’t think of such a thing, Becca.”
She was taken aback by the vehemence of his refusal.
“I’m flattered by your offer, Rebecca,” he explained. “Tis simply to say that the ring is yours.”
“It would do me pleasure if I could give it to you.”
“No, daughter, I cannot take it,” he said. “But I see your heart is pure with kindness toward me. The next time we minister to the Queen, you must wear it.” He slipped it back in Rebecca’s bag and kissed her red, wet cheek. “Such a splendid piece of jewelry. Then you’ve still much favor with the Queen.”
“She said I may come to court anytime.”
“Then her invitation is still—”
“Father,” Rebecca implored in a whisper, “do not force me! I pray you with all my heart, Father, please do not compel me to go.”
She began to sob again.
“Becca, my love …” Roderigo cleared his throat, touched by her emotional cries. “No one will force you to leave the family you hold so dear. But you must tell me why. You’ve always been so headstrong, so independent, having shown in the past no need of my advice or assistance. Explain yourself to me.”
Rebecca was silent. How could she begin to tell him? Of the Queen and her perverted ways. Of her foul breath, slimy hands, and serpentine tongue. Her father wouldn’t believe her, no matter how she’d insist it to be the truth. The worst insult under heaven—to be called a liar.
“I cannot express it into words.” She wiped her tears with her handkerchief and sniffed the spicy aroma of her pomander. Would that it could remove the stench of the old woman from her nostrils. And Rebecca knew that odor was not a condition of advanced age. Grandmama smelled as sweet as the rosewater she bathed in.
Roderigo hugged her again. “Never mind. As long as the Queen bears no ill will toward you.”
Or to me.
“None whatsoever, Father. I assure you.”
Rebecca had made certain of that. She’d accommodated the Queen’s every whim, quenched her every desire. The memories made her weak in the stomach.
Roderigo put his mouth against his daughter’s ear and whispered, “She really is a wretched old harpie, is she not?”
For the first time in twenty-four hours, Rebecca smiled sincerely.
Christopher Mudd had caught his coney—an old windbag of a knight sorely drunk on cheap booze. The dupe was fat with a honey-tipped beard and surprisingly spindly legs. Wearing a scarlet doublet and brown hose, the gallant looked like an apple perched atop two wooden sticks.
A bene gull he’d be, thought Mudd. He thanked the stars for his good hap and prayed that there were many coins in the coney’s purse—enough to please the master. Ye Gods, Mackering had been in a fierce mood of late, constantly cursing, smacking him for bringing in too little money. Waving the sharp dagger in front of his