Merivel: A Man of His Time

by Rose Tremain

  I was like a Jack-in-the-Box, during these Last Days, called to His Majesty’s bedside, sent away, called to him again, dismissed once more.

  This – and I could not but smile at it – resembled an accelerated version of my life, with regard to the King. And I thought that, by rights, this uncertain Condition should have made me nimble and canny, but that it had not. I had always been – as Pearce once commented – Caesar’s Slave. And now, a slave still, I was growing old and flat-footed.

  Yet I harboured the certainty that, when the hour came and King Charles bid his Kingdom adieu, I would be by his side. Though he might die in the middle of the night, I felt sure that before the moment came, somebody would wake me. Though he might die in the Queen’s arms, or in Fubbsy’s, yet nevertheless did I picture myself standing near.

  On Wednesday evening rumour spread into the city beyond Whitehall that the King was rallying and would soon be well, so we heard the sound of Bells being rung all over London and, looking from a high window, as the dusk fell, I saw the intermittent glow of bonfires. But I knew that the King would not be well. I longed to go about the city and warm myself at the fires, and tell the people to get out their mourning clothes and take all to be cleaned at Mrs Pierpoint’s Superior Laundry on London Bridge.

  Returning to Fubbsy’s apartments, I saw that they had undergone a terrible Stripping. Each and every object that could fit inside a trunk and others besides, such as Card Tables and embroidered Footstools, which could not, had been piled into the Entrance Hall, waiting for a cart to trundle them away to safety.

  Margaret and I looked about us in some dismay.

  ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I am glad that she did not confiscate the beds.’

  From Margaret’s room, however, many precious objects had been removed, so that nothing remained with which she might brush her hair and only one Candle Sconce had been left to her. She sat down on the bed and said to me: ‘If the King dies, the Duchess will leave for France. She has asked me to go with her. She has been so good to me, Papa, but I would prefer to stay in England, where I can be close to Julius. What am I to do?’

  ‘You must do as your heart desires,’ said I. ‘And you should remember that the Duchess, separated from the King, will be nothing and no one in France, so your life may become dull and sad there.’

  ‘Yet she expects me to go with her …’

  ‘She cannot hold you to her for ever, and this she surely knows. I shall return to Bidnold, and you may come with me there, if that pleases you, and Julius may visit us and we can show him the Hornbeam Alley …’

  At this very moment came in Julius Royston and, finding us sitting wearily in an almost empty room, said: ‘Oh, misery! What Hovel is this you now inhabit?’

  And this gladdened us with laughter, and Julius put forward at once a Plan for Margaret to move into Lord Delavigne’s house ‘where you may be comfortable again, sweet love, and possessed of a Hairbrush!’

  And I could see that Margaret was very taken with this Plan and would mightily prefer to inhabit Delavigne House on the Strand than to travel to Norfolk in February and be parted from her fiancé.

  And so it was arranged that, after the King had made his final adieu, Margaret would live under the protection of Lord and Lady Delavigne, in a mansion where there was no shortage of Footstools or Candelabra, and I would travel alone to Bidnold, where I prayed to find everything made clean and safe for my Returning.

  *

  On Thursday the King sent for me again. Wondering whether he might require of me some Medical Intervention, I went to get my Surgical Instruments, but I could not find them.

  Since my return from Switzerland, I had kept them by my bed, in the lowest drawer of my Night Table, but when I opened this drawer there was nothing in it – only a little fawn-coloured dust, where a Beetle had been gnawing at the wood.

  I searched everywhere in my room, yet knew that my Instruments would not be found. And I could not but conclude that Fubbs had instructed her Servants to snatch up everything of value – regardless of its ownership – and hurl it into the waiting trunks.

  This both saddened me and made me angry. The Instruments I had kept safely with me since 1665. They had been a Gift to me from the King, who, wanting to rouse me out of the lethargy into which I had fallen at Bidnold, had had inscribed upon the handle of the Scalpel, the Motto Merivel, do not Sleep.

  I had cared for them with scrupulous attention, keeping them polished and sharp. It was with them that I had attempted to cut away Violet Bathurst’s Cancer. It was with them that I had let blood from Margaret’s arm during the time of her Typhus. It was with them that I had attempted to take out the Stones and Tumours of my patients down the span of twenty years. Without them I felt enfeebled.

  I nevertheless made my way, empty-handed, to the King’s door and was ushered into the room, where I witnessed His Majesty saying goodbye to Fubbsy’s son, the Duke of Richmond, the youngest of his illegitimate children, and saw how everybody round the bed had turned their backs on Fubbs and her child, trying to snub them. With her great overload of grief, and now finding herself openly insulted by One and All, Fubbsy’s eyes had turned red and Squinty.

  When Fubbs and her son had gone out, I was taken to the Bedside and saw at once, from the King’s colour and from the shrunken aspect of his face, that he was surely sinking.

  ‘Merivel,’ he whispered. ‘The time is come. Pray fetch Huddleston and ask that the room be cleared of everyone except my brother and Lord Feversham, who is a Catholic and will bear witness to my Conversion.’

  ‘I will fetch Huddleston, Sire,’ I said, ‘but I have no authority to clear the room.’

  ‘Then ask the Duke of York to do it. But do not delay.’

  The Duke of York was one among the many who had turned his back upon Fubbs. But I now saw that he, too, was weeping, and to interrupt his tears seemed heartless and rude. I nevertheless approached him. He looked at me with Disdain Absolute, but permitted me to come near, and when he heard my whispered Message, he blew his nose very loudly and assented to clearing the room.

  I sped off to find Huddleston, who had promised to wait in the Queen’s apartments until he should be summoned and, when he saw me, he knew that the moment had arrived and scuttled round him to procure the Host, sanctified by one of the Queen’s Priests, and slammed a wig upon his head, so that none would recognise him.

  ‘Father,’ said I, ‘I do not think the wig will suffice, for all will see your Priestly garments below. Why do you not take my cloak and put it round you?’

  I laid my warm cloak round Father Huddleston’s shoulders and together we returned to the King’s Rooms, to see departing the phalanx of Bishops, who had appeared so fascinated with the Enema procedures, and I felt glad that these proud churchmen were Out of Favour and the humble Huddleston brought to sudden significance by the strange configuration of the times and His Majesty’s conscience.

  We lurked together outside the Bedchamber, feigning a sudden interest in a tapestry depicting a Wild Boar stuck with the arrows of the approaching Hunters, until the last of the Lords and Councillors had departed. Then the Duke of York came to the door and ushered Huddleston inside the Chamber, and I made as though to follow him, but found the door closed in my face.

  The day was very cold, with a violet sky promising snow. Deprived of my cloak, and with the door so cruelly shut a mere inch from the nose the King used to love to tweak, I discovered myself to be shivering with misery, and I could not but think of the icy grave that attended my poor Sovereign, as cold as that in which we had buried Pearce.

  I sat down on a stone settle and put my head in my hands. I knew that these two men – John Pearce and Charles II of England – had been the guardians of my Soul, passing it from one to the other, yet keeping it always safe in their hands. And what would become of it now I could not tell, but could only imagine that it was destined for a long fall into Darkness.

  By and by came Huddleston out of the Chamber, and tende
rly put my cloak back upon my shoulders and whispered to me: ‘It is done. He is received into the True Church.’

  I mumbled that I was glad, although, to me, one Church or None can make no difference to what awaits the King, and that is the Nothingness from which we came and to which we again return.

  Huddleston sat by me on the settle and I found his presence comforting, and I said to him: ‘Father, when the King is gone I shall be lost. I shall have no Direction.’

  He put his hand on my shoulder, but said nothing, for knowing me even a little, he understood that this was entirely true, so what could he say in the way of any Comfort? And I honoured him for this. One of the things I do detest in the world is people making Light of my Sorrows and saying ‘now, now, be of good cheer’ and altogether telling me to feel what I cannot feel and consoling me where Consolation there is none.

  We sat silently there for a long time. Father Huddleston took off his borrowed wig and examined it for fleas and lice. He found a flea, but did not kill it, but only brushed it away. Then at length he said: ‘Sorrow makes one weary. Why do you not go and sleep a little?’

  I replied that I had pledged in my heart to Keep Watch until the King was gone, but Huddleston said: ‘He wishes to be alone for a Space, to ponder what he has done today. So I advise you to sleep now, in the case that you may be needed in the night, or on the morrow.’

  I did as he suggested, returned to my half-empty room and lay down. As the afternoon came on I saw snow falling. Sleep came and went, and came again and went again.

  I rose towards four o’clock and found Fubbs supervising the taking away of her Trunks, and said to her: ‘Your Grace, I am upset that my Surgical Instruments have been mistaken for Possessions of yours and put into the luggage. May we call the Trunks back?’

  ‘What Instruments?’ she shrieks at me. ‘What would I want with Surgical Instruments?’

  ‘They were stowed in my Night Table. They are the Tools of my Trade and a gift from the King, and most precious to me …’

  ‘I have not seen them. The Trunks are gone. All that they contain belongs to me and to no one else. You must have dropped your instruments carelessly in the street.’

  Carelessly in the street!

  ‘Duchess,’ say I, ‘no such thing is possible. The instruments have been by my side, and barely out of my sight, for twenty years. They were stowed beside my bed. I have not moved them from there. But now they are gone.’

  ‘And you are accusing me of stealing them for my own use?’

  ‘I am accusing you of nothing. All I know is that something that is very precious to me has been inadvertently taken away. Please may we ask the Servants to bring in the Trunks again …’

  ‘No, we may not! Mon dieu, quelle histoire pour un petit rien! The Trunks contain my Goods and nothing else, and they must be sent to the Embassy now, without delay, or everything I own will be taken from me. So please do not trouble me with this petty concern of yours.’

  ‘Your Grace,’ say I, ‘in all humility, this is not a “petty concern” …’

  ‘Yes, it is! I marvel that, at such a time, you can think only of yourself! Surgical instruments may be purchased afresh, but if my possessions are taken from me I will not have the means to replace them. The Trunks are leaving now, so please let me hear no more of this matter.’

  In her fury to pack and in her Great Sadness, Fubbsy had, here and there across the afternoon, fortified herself with tipples of wine and these tipples had become so numerous that she was now quite categorically inebriated, and could not walk without stumbling, nor focus her eyes upon any Thing, and her breath was very pungent.

  I went to her side and took her arm to steady her and said gently: ‘I will go after the Trunks and search them as they travel …’

  Tearing away her arm, Fubbs exhaled a malodorous puff of wine vapour and shrieked: ‘What! And steal much else besides and strip me of things I love, as you are stripping me of Margaret?’

  ‘I am not “stripping” you of Margaret, Duchess,’ I said. ‘Margaret does not want to be parted from Julius Royston, and that is the sum of it.’

  ‘All I asked was that she come with me to France and see me settled. But no, she will not. I thought she had a kind heart, but I see now that, like you, she thinks only of herself!’

  Though I was now very cross with the Duchess, I saw that it was of no avail to argue further with her. As she took yet another gulp of wine, I left the room and went down into the courtyard, where the Trunks were being loaded onto a wooden cart. Here I endeavoured to explain my loss of my precious instruments to the Servants charged with seeing the luggage safely brought to the French Embassy, but they did not seem willing to listen to me.

  At length I produced a Purse containing three shillings and, given that the number of attendant Servants was two, I showed them that this made a neat Mathematic of a shilling and sixpence each, if they would let me ride in the cart and look for my instruments as we travelled along.

  Hastily they took the money and bundled me in, and the horse set off at a foolish, lumbering gallop along the icy roads.

  35

  I DO NOT know where we were when the cart was brought to its calamity.

  One moment I was kneeling on the floor of the conveyance, searching in the topmost trunk, among bundles of silver forks and a fine array of Cream Jugs, Pepper Pots, Salt Cellars and Wine Coasters for my lost Instruments, and in the next second did I realise that the cart was tilting, like a barque in a violent storm.

  I clutched at the sides of it, as though attempting to steady both it and myself within it, but neither was to be steadied. The heavy trunks slid towards me and all toppled sideways into the gutter – cart and horse, Servants, Merivel and luggage – and lay there unable to move, as though a mighty wave had crashed upon us.

  I was aware of my head hitting the hard road and then of some heavy Thing falling upon my ankle. And that is all that I remember.

  I woke in a cold, dim room.

  There was a stench in it, sufficient, almost, to make me retch, yet strangely familiar to me. Noises, as of Animals in pain, reverberated around me. I fancied I was in a Zoo.

  I tried to remain conscious by wondering what specimens this Zoo contained.

  I imagined Ostriches and Camels, Hyenas and Crocodiles. I longed to hear the cheeping of baby birds, fancying that this sound, which was the sound of Spring and of life returning, would console me.

  ‘Sip-sip, sip-sip … come to me, sweet chicks …’ I murmured.

  Then I was swallowed once more, like Jonah by the Whale, into the belly of darkness and nothingness.

  When next I came to my senses an old woman in a blue-cloth gown was standing over me and pulling my eyelids about to see into my eyes. Then her hands moved upwards to my head and began to fuss with something there, and I became aware of a most dreadful Ache in my skull and a dryness in my throat that was almost insupportable.

  The Zoo still cried out all around me. I fancied I could hear Lions and Monkeys, and the terrible repetitive shrieking of a Peacock.

  ‘What Zoo is this?’ I managed to ask the blue-cloth crone.

  ‘Zoo!’ she said. ‘Lord love us! Stay still, good man, and do not speak.’

  I reached up and clutched her arm. ‘What place am I in?’ I said.

  She looked at me more kindly then. She was elderly and poor, with her hair drawn into an unfashionable strangulated Bun on the top of her head, but with something of tenderness in her eyes. ‘You are in St Thomas’s Hospital,’ she said, ‘and you are lucky to be alive. You were found spilled onto the road.’

  St Thomas’s Hospital.

  I had not been inside this wretched institution since Pearce and I worked long hours here, when we were learning the Physician’s trade, after finishing our Anatomical Studies in Cambridge. I had not thought – because that this is a hospital for the Poor – ever to be a Patient in St Thomas’s, trusting to Fortune that I would never be poor enough to get shelter here. But here
I was.

  I turned my aching head, looked about me and saw, indeed, that I was lying on a thin mattress on a wooden bed, with numberless other mortals of a Poor kind of disposition laid out beside me in a reeking Ward.

  The air in the room was damp, as though the sun never reached it. On the stone floor had been strewn a quantity of straw, now much mixed with excrement, as in a cattle byre. The Animal noises came from the mouths and Arses of the Sick, all closeted together here, covered only with thin blankets, or else creeping about, like starving dogs and crying, and many passing the time by farting and defecating into tin bowls. Round these bowls, among the saturated straw, scuttled a lively quantity of mice.

  I had had it in mind to ask the woman for a cup of water, but she was no longer by me. In the next bed to mine lay a sleeping man, very thin, with his head shaved for the application of Cantharidic Plasters and the deep Scurf of some ancient Pox still visible upon his face. Spittle bubbled up from his mouth, and oiled his chin and his straw-stuffed pillow. And I remembered how Pearce had always been very severe towards all victims of the Pox, looking me in the eye and saying: ‘Men who court their own misery by lechery get the fate they deserve.’

  Yet for all this remembered severity, I wished Pearce might be by my side now. I wished he might lift me up and get me away from here, and lay me down in my soft bed at Bidnold and watch over me, as I once watched over him for thirty-seven hours. I wished he might sit quietly by me, his white hands playing softly upon his china soup ladle, as though it might have been a lute. I wished he might bring me water and food.

  Reaching up and touching my head, I discovered a Bandage there, and the touching of this Bandage brought back into my mind how I had been in the cumbersome cart with Fubbsy’s Trunks, and how we had met with catastrophe on our way to the Embassy.

  I could not know, from the ache in my head, how broken or cracked it might be, but I knew that I was not gone into Madness, for that my thoughts now began to turn upon whether I might find it in me to rise up and walk out of this place. I was horribly aware that my poor Margaret would be worried on my account. Fubbs had had no idea that I had boarded the cart with the Trunks and, all befuddled by wine as she was and angry with me, and distraught with sorrow, might have told Margaret any Thing of her choosing, viz. that I had taken flight for Norfolk or gone to drown myself in the river.