Cover image for The quality of mercy
The quality of mercy
Kellerman, Faye.
Personal Author:
1st Avon pbk. ed.
Publication Information:
New York : Avon, 2009.

Physical Description:
580 pages : map ; 21 cm
Format :


Call Number
Material Type
Home Location
Kenmore Library FICTION Adult Fiction Mystery/Suspense

On Order



Rebecca Lopez enjoys a life of privilege in Elizabeth's England--yet she guards secrets she dares not reveal. The beautiful, tempestuous daughter of the queen's own physician, Rebecca is also a converso--a Jew who practices her prohibited religion clandestinely--helping others of her banned faith escape persecution and death. Her insatiable hunger for excitement often takes her to the bustling streets of London in male garb to experience the kind of adventure available only to men. But one such outing is leading her into a dangerous viper's nest built of intrigue and foul murder, in the company of a dashing young actor who inflames her romantic passions even as he escorts her toward peril...a charming and fearless would-be playwright who calls himself Will Shakespeare.

Author Notes

Faye Kellerman was born in St. Louis, Missouri on July 31, 1952. She received a B.A. in mathematics and a doctorate in dentistry from UCLA. Instead of becoming a dentist, she decided to become a writer after being inspired by the success of her husband, Jonathan Kellerman.

Her first novel, The Ritual Bath, won the 1987 Macavity Award for Best First Mystery. It also became the first book in the Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus Novel series, which consists of over 20 volumes. Her other books include Moon Music, The Quality of Mercy, Prism written with Aliza Kellerman, and Double Homicide and Capital Crimes written with Jonathan Kellerman. She received a lifetime achievement award from Strand Magazine on July 10, 2013. She made the New York Times Best Seller List in 2017 with her title Bone Box.

(Bowker Author Biography)

Reviews 2

Publisher's Weekly Review

Kellerman's ( Sacred and Profane ) first departure from her series featuring Detective Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus is a tour de force that shouldn't be missed. The story is brilliantly original and breathtaking in its scope. The beautiful and intelligent heroine, Rebecca Lopez, and her family are conversos : Spanish Jews, posing as Anglicans in Elizabethan England, who practice their faith in secret. Rebecca's father, Roderigo, the queen's personal physician, leads a clandestine movement committed to smuggling Jews out of Spain. Rebecca's betrothed has just died during a mission and, though she mourns him, she yearns to be independent, to remain unmarried. Meanwhile, the young actor-playwright William Shakespeare is seeking revenge for the murder of his mentor, Harry Whitman. He decides to retrace his friend's last days in hopes of discovering clues to the killer's identity. Intent on different endeavors, Will and Rebecca eventually cross paths, changing their lives forever. Deft characterization and dazzling prose evoke the ambiance of the period. More than just a mystery, the novel is a spectacular epic--romantic, bawdy, witty and abounding with adventure. It's a stellar performance. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Library Journal Review

Rebecca Lopez and William Shakespeare first encounter each other in a London graveyard where she is burying her betrothed and he his mentor and best friend. Their paths cross again as they seek to avenge these untimely deaths, she joining in her family's mission to rescue fellow Jews from the Spanish Inquisition, he searching for the murderer among London's criminals. Shakepeare offers excitement and intellectual stimulation to the brilliant, adventurous Rebecca, stifled by the restricted life of an Elizabethan woman, but political and religious events overtake them and doom the relationship. Lack of development in both plot and characters renders many events gratuitous and makes the characters seem one dimensional. For avid historical fiction buffs only. Kellerman is the author of two well-received mysteries, The Ritual Bath (LJ 5/1/86) and Sacred and Profane (LJ 6/1/87) . -- Cynthia Johnson Whealler, Cary Memorial Lib., Lexington, Mass. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.



The Quality of Mercy Chapter One As I see the first hint of sunlight, the death march begins. We advance toward the Terriero do Paco -- the great city square adjacent to the Royal Palace on the seafront. Leading the processional is Don Henrique -- the Inquisitor General of Portugal by appointment of his older brother, His Royal Highness John the Third. Don Henrique is an ugly man -- lean, with an avian nose, and black eyes set so deeply that the sockets appear hollow. His thick beard -- a weave of bronze, copper, and iron -- is meticulously shaped to a dagger point. His dress is appropriately august -- official: floor-length black robe and cape, white clerical collar, and black trapezoidal hat. Dangling from his neck is his scallop-edged crucifix of gold, inset with topaz, lapis, aquamarine, sapphire, and topped with a finial of diamonds. A haughty man, Don Henrique always wears jeweled crosses. Gilt bible clutched to his breast, eyes fixed straight ahead, he presses on slowly but inexorably, prepared to carry out the work of his God. Following the Inquisitor are four rows of black-garbed monks. Around their necks are unadorned crucifixes fashioned from the heavier base metals. Rigid and stone-faced, they carry black-covered bibles and hold aloft crosses and banners. They chant low-pitched dirges as they trudge forward on sandaled feet. Behind the clergy are the royal officials and the blackhooded executioners -- the secular arm of the law. Their ranks advance in taut, military fashion -- arms swinging with pendular precision, not a boot out of step. We are at the rear of the retinue. The victims -- the wretches. We are heavily guarded and hold lighted tapers that spit fire into the early morning. sky. Some of us endure the ordeal with stoicism -- posture erect, gait sure-footed and strong. That is how I walk. Others about me seem stuporous, stumbling off-balance, as if being yanked forward by an invisible harness. The weakest weep openly. The auto-da-fé -- act of faith -- is the day of reckoning for us. We've been convicted of violations of the Church. We walk forward, clearly identified for the onlookers; we wear the dreaded sambenito -- the two-sided apron of shame imprinted with symbols corresponding to our infractions. Serious sinners like myself wear corazas -- conical miters -- as well. Some are considered penitent and deemed reconcilable to the Church. They will gratefully accept the penalties meted out to them. The pettiest among them will be punished with fines, terms of forced servitude, or imprisonment. More serious transgressors will merit whipping or public shaming -- being stripped to the waist and paraded around town to the derision and jeers of their countrymen. Wretches who committed grave infractions will be plunged into poverty, have all their worldly possessions confiscated by the Holy Office. These offenders will be stigmatized for generations, their descendants barred forever from entering the Holy Office, from becoming physicians, tutors, apothecaries, advocates, scriveners, or farmers for revenue. They will be forbidden to dress in cloth woven from gold or silver thread, wear jewelry, or ride on horseback. But they are fortunate. I, and others like me, are deemed impenitent. We hapless souls are guilty of the most odious heresies. My specific crime is Judaizing -- practicing and professing the ancient laws of Moses rendered obsolete by their Jesus Christ. Once, Spain called me a converso -- a Christian of Jewish bloodline. I was an overt Catholic, but secretly I practiced the old ways. My transgressions were discovered by a wanton woman. Now I am doomed. Distinguished from the fortunates by our green tapers and dress, we -- the relapsos -- wear special fiery miters and the sambenito of death imprinted with the likeness of the Devil himself. Around his horned visage and pronged fork are leaping flames: the Hell that is to await us. I spit on their stinking Christian ground. That's what I think of their Hell. This morning will be my last. Before the night is over, I will be sentenced to die without effusion of blood, their castigation derived from John 15:6 -- from the teachings of their Savior Himself: If a man abide not in me, he is cast forth as a branch and is withered and men gather them and cast them into the fire, and they are burned. The dank ocean fog begins to melt, yielding to an opaline sky dotted with tufts of woolly cloud. At six in the morning the city bells ring out the signal and I shudder with dread. The cobblestone walkways begin to fill with austere gentlemen somberly wrapped in dark capes. They step with much haste, their servants at their heels. Ten minutes later the veiled women of the households emerge -- wives, mothers, sisters, and daughters. Some of the women hold babies and toddlers, others drag older children, chiding them for slowness. The streets soon become a throng of bodies. In the center is this murderous tribunal -- as poisonous as an asp. It undulates its way to the city square. By the time the officials arrive at the Terreiro, most of the spectators have been positioned, either standing, or seated in the gallery benches that form a semicircle around the dais, the garrotes, and the stakes. In the foreground are the whitecapped swells of the ocean. In the background stands the great palace, casting a deep shadow over the galleries. We are ordered to stand up straight. A guard hits the woman next to me. She is eight months pregnant, younger than I, I think. Around seventeen. Her back is stooped from the weight of her fruit. I smile at her. Wet-eyed, she smiles back at me. Our eyes have told each to be strong. As Don Henrique ascends to the black-draped podium, the noise of idle conversation softens, then finally quiets to silence. The Inquisitor stands immobile, his head bowed in meditation. The sun, now higher in the advanced morning sky, projects a metallic sheen onto the ground, gilding the Inquisitor. Tides yawn rhythmic... The Quality of Mercy . Copyright © by Faye Kellerman. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from The Quality of Mercy by Faye Kellerman All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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