State of Treason

by Paul Walker

  ‘My Lady Katherine, may I introduce a friend of mine, Doctor William Constable.’

  She acknowledges Richard, then turns to me. ‘Doctor Constable, I was informed that you would attend for Doctor Huicke and you do not disappoint. You are as handsome as in the telling.’ A mischievous smile lights her pale features. She is young; perhaps only fifteen years, and her head barely reaches my breastbone.

  I remove my cap and bow. I note that the Earl has stopped talking and looks at me with an air of disapproval as though disliking this interruption.

  ‘Lady Katherine, I am at your disposal whenever you wish to begin our consultation.’

  ‘Then, let it be now.’ She offers me her hand, which I place on my arm and we depart for my chamber after bidding thanks to Richard and promising that we will meet again in short time.

  She is a dainty thing and appears doll-like when sat in the large patient chair capable of accommodating arses four or five times her span. Her feet do not touch the floor.

  ‘Are you well, lady?’ She has volunteered no ailment and there is no visible fault except for the pallor of her skin.

  ‘I am well, thank you. I require bleeding, is all.’

  ‘Bleeding, lady – why?’

  ‘Her Majesty does not allow the use of white lead paste in her ladies under eighteen years. Without regular bleeding, my complexion would be as a peasant girl and the other ladies would have a merry time at my expense.’ Her bottom lip bulges and quivers at the thought of this teasing. ‘Doctors Huicke and Lyle bleed me thrice each week.’

  ‘Lady, there is no need for bleeding. You are quite white.’

  ‘I am? But will…’

  ‘It would be unwise to take more blood at this time. The humors should be balanced and in one of tender years, the loss of too much blood can lead to an excess of black bile and melancholy. Your paleness is most becoming and from my observation you are as white as the other ladies in your circle.’

  Her expression shows that she is not fully convinced.

  I say, ‘An examination of your stars may allow a better understanding of your wellbeing. Have the doctors prepared an astrological chart for you?’

  Her curiosity is pricked. ‘No, and how would that…’

  ‘It would reveal an understanding of your nature and the treatments most suitable for temperament, health and beauty.’

  There is a light of interest in her eyes, but then she frowns. ‘Will the stars reveal the secrets of my future happiness, or hurtful things to come?’

  ‘No, they will not be used in that regard.’

  ‘I am told that some astrologers may have a wicked purpose and I should beware of their promises.’

  ‘Told, by whom?’

  ‘Other ladies.’ She waves her hand as if to dismiss the subject.

  I disappoint her. She brightens a little when I recommend an infusion of white rose petals to soften her skin and maintain its paleness. Our conversation is done and our return to the royal apartments is more subdued than our outward passage.

  My second consultation is a sharp contrast with my first. Mary Reed is a formidable woman with turned-down mouth and the build of a foot soldier. She complains of head pains and bright lights which disturb her vision. I also note that she has many black teeth and her right cheek is swollen. There is an unpleasant smell and signs of decomposition in her mouth.

  ‘I will not let your blood today, lady. You must have the teeth on your lower right side removed tomorrow and that will release sufficient blood. That will also help with your head pains. You must take two days bed rest in a darkened room. I will prepare some oil of cloves to rub on your gums and a potion of lemon balm to assist with your rest.’

  She leaves me with contrary assertions of dread at the prospect of the extractions and relief that her suffering may be at an end. I suspect that she has endured for too long until the point where agonies overcame her fear of the cure.

  I pass the remaining hours of daylight with Richard who introduces me to his friends and acquaintances at court. Our time together is pleasant enough, save for another face of disdain and disapproval cast my way by Oxford as we pass his group. I keep my head down and hear laughter behind me as we step by. Was that at my expense? I am glad when the afternoon sky greys, I can excuse myself from idle talk and return to West Cheap.

  *

  I am conscious of neglect of my home patients and make straight for Mother’s chamber where I find Rose at her bedside applying a cloth to her brow. I bid Rose follow me to the door and ask how she fares in low voice.

  ‘She cannot shit, sir. I fear there is a monstrous blockage in her belly. She has not shat for several days.’

  I look over at Mother and see she struggles with her pains. I had thought that the trouble with her bowels had eased with my treatment of rhubarb root and ginger. Her stools were hard and passed with difficulty, but there was movement, although some days past.

  ‘Have you saved her piss for me, Rose?’

  ‘Yes sir, the pot is by the bed.’

  ‘Thank you, Rose. Please ask Mistress Hilliard to prepare an infusion of chamomile and lemon balm. I will tend to my mother.’

  The colour and smell of the piss show no fault. I dampen the cloth and press it lightly on her forehead. She opens her eyes and fixes me with a weak smile that speaks of misery and hopelessness. It is hard to bear and I curse my impotence as her physician. I remain at her bedside for two hours, talking everyday nonsense and soothing her brow. Eventually, the brew from Mistress Hilliard calms her and she sleeps.

  I join John for supper, but have no appetite for it. John, to my surprise, eats heartily of a chicken and boiled beef. He confirms that he is improved and his fits of expectoration are less. He is grateful for the soothers prepared by Mistress Hilliard. In reply to my question he says that he has taken this four times today and I wonder if he has acquired a taste for this mixture or the company of its preparer. He has been at his studies and confesses that he is pleased at progress made. He does not enquire directly on my activities, so I relate the news of my summons by Mylles, my consultations and mingling with courtiers.

  I say, ‘My purpose is to sift court gossip and to identify any loose mention that may have a connection with the conspiracy, but I do not hold great hope that my presence there will bear fruit.’

  ‘It is a keen scheme by Walsingham and Mylles, as a new physician in that place will not be suspected of having a purpose other than cures and self-advancement.’

  ‘You may be correct, but I find myself ill at ease in the company. There are so many faces there; perhaps five hundred or more. I am overwhelmed by numbers and uninspired by the conversation.’

  ‘I sympathise, William. The preening and gaggle there is not to my liking, but you must bear it for a short time. Did you meet any notables today?’

  ‘I am thankful that I encountered an old friend who was able to supply names and offer introductions. He is Sir Thomas Heneage’s man and of relatively low standing.’ I pause and recollect a particular discomfort. ‘I saw, but did not converse with, the Earl of Oxford. I regret that he did not seem to hold me in his favour.’

  John emits a low growl. ‘Oxford. He is a young man of pretty words and questionable morals, who I have long suspected holds Rome in high regard. Unfortunately, Her Majesty is partial to his charms. You must take care with him, William. He is dangerous and unpredictable.’

  It is odd to think of John at court. His demeanour is so far removed from the general triviality of the place that I forget he is known and has a considerable reputation, even amongst the highest in the land. I will heed his advice. There is a knock at the door and Mistress Hilliard enters. She hands me a note.

  ‘I am sorry, Master William, I had forgotten that a note was received while you were away from your house today.’

  The note is from Helen Morton. She will call at this house with Rosamund tomorrow noon.

  Eleven

  I rise before dawn and journey to Whitehall,
hoping that the great court will be less populated in the early hours of light. Forester is at his table and I hand over the medicines with written instructions for delivery to the hands of yesterday’s patients. I tell him that I have other work today and will depart shortly unless there is a particular requirement for my attention. He answers that there is a person who wishes to see me and that I should wait for their conference. He offers no name and sends notice of my arrival.

  I find no trace of Richard Joynes in the apartments and return to the physicians’ rooms to wait for my visitor. An hour passes and three ladies appear at my door. Two withdraw and a plump woman of middle years steps forward.

  ‘Doctor Constable, I am Blanche Parry.’ I know the name by repute, as a favourite and close companion of the Queen. There is a directness and sureness in her manner.

  I bow and offer her a chair. I am about to ask the purpose of her visit when she speaks.

  ‘I am not here to seek your services as a physician, Doctor. I am quite well.’

  ‘Indeed, lady, your good health is plain to see and I am honoured that you have taken the trouble to seek out a newcomer to this place.’

  ‘Do not waste your flattery on me, Doctor Constable, I am not here to gaze upon your handsome face, or exchange pleasantries.’

  I take a breath, bob my head in understanding and wait for what is to follow.

  ‘You conferred with Katherine Brydges yesterday. I heard that you declined to let her blood.’

  ‘Yes, lady, I considered that to do so would be harmful and instead suggested a kind salve she may apply to soften her skin.’

  She waves a hand and continues, ‘That is of no consequence. I am most concerned that there was mention of astrology, in which discipline I understand you are a practitioner of note.’

  ‘Yes, lady, there was, but…’

  ‘There will be no more talk of stars and the coming fortunes of ladies at this court, Doctor Constable. Such matters will excite those of a feverish temperament, touch dangerously close to false magic and they recall the ungodly practices of Catholicism.’

  ‘I agree with much of your sentiment, lady. My purpose in astrology is simply to aid a person’s wellbeing by a better understanding of their natural state and inclinations. I had a similar conversation in recent days with my companion. Do you know Doctor Foxe?’

  Her manner transforms instantly. ‘Doctor John Foxe of the Book of Martyrs?’

  ‘Yes, lady, he is a friend and guest at my house in West Cheap. We have worked together these past few days and have conversed on many topics.’

  She nods her head slowly as if coming to an enlightenment. ‘There is more to you than I had understood, William Constable.’

  ‘May I ask you a question, lady?’ I pause briefly so that she shows her consent. ‘Has there been any cause for you to suspect the misuse of astrology at this place in recent months, and before my appearance yesterday?’ I am too open in my question, but decide that I may as well be even more direct. ‘In particular, have you knowledge of loose talk concerning a star chart for a bastard heir?’

  Her expression shows shock for a moment, but then a grasp of what may lie behind my question. ‘There have been many vile and dishonest assertions of this nature from a time before Her Majesty’s succession, but none to my knowledge were connected with astrology.’ She hesitates. ‘There was… a chamber lady confided that she overheard two gentlemen speak of a clandestine royal birth. It was spoken in jest and I have long since ceased to pay regard to this tattle if it is contained and does not reach Her Majesty’s ears.’

  ‘May I know the names of these gentlemen?’

  ‘Both are young and recently adopted to this court. I am sure it was no more than a matter of naivety and foolishness. One was Sir Peter Capton and the other, Arthur Perse.’

  *

  I hasten back to my house to be sure I am ready to welcome Helen and Rosamund. I have two names from Blanche Parry, with her caution that they are fresh faces at court. It is unlikely that they are at the core of the plot, but I suppose I must report them to Mylles if no redeeming evidence comes to light. Then, there is Jane Dee’s mention of Christopher Millen. It is troubling that these names are mere hints with no fixed connection to the conspiracy, but it must be the lot of an intelligencer to examine many false diversions before chancing upon an instance that has some veracity.

  I wait impatiently in my study unable to concentrate on the navigational aid. I must clear my mind and reserve time to work on this problem, or I will displease Morton and Hawkins. Shortly after the sounding of midday bells, I hear movement at the front of the house. Helen has arrived on a grey palfrey with Rosamund and two men in attendance. I take the ladies through to our receiving chamber and beg Mistress Hilliard to ask John to join with us at our dining table in a half hour.

  ‘Ladies, welcome to my house and my deepest thanks for attending on a cold day.’

  Helen bobs her head in acknowledgement. ‘Thank you, William Constable, for your invitation, which allows us to escape our familiar surroundings, explore this town and learn from your practices as a physician.’

  ‘I trust that your father was content for you to journey to this place?’

  ‘He was most insistent that I do so. He enjoyed your company at his table and was disturbed to hear of your mother’s ailment.’

  Rosamund touches Helen’s sleeve and says in a voice that is barely above a whisper, ‘We should see our subjects before I tire.’

  Helen explains that it is Rosamund’s habit to rest in the middle of the day and the short ride has drained her strength. She asks if we could shorten our pleasantries here and begin their examinations. Mother is alone in her room, asleep and with an unopened book on her covers. There is a grimace on her face as I touch her arm and murmur words to wake her gently. Her eyes open and a smile at my presence turns to surprise when she sees my two companions. I am perhaps too full in my account of the ladies attendance at her bedside, as she shows signs of impatience and waves me aside. I step to the back of the room and watch as Helen and Rosamund talk in low voices to my mother. Their conversation continues and I leave quietly to check on the preparations for our dinner. John is seated at the table with cup in hand.

  ‘I hear we have guests, William.’

  ‘I am pleased you are in good spirits and have some colour in your cheeks, John. We have a visit from two ladies who are skilful in the application of herbal cures. It is my hope that they may be able to suggest improvements in the potions for you and my mother.’

  ‘Unaccompanied ladies?’

  ‘They have an escort of two men and they are from a family that is known to mine.’

  ‘I will be loath to surrender my present soother for another, but I hope that they may provide some relief for the lady Amy.’

  Almost one hour passes before Helen and Rosamund join us for an adjournment of boiled fowl, smoked trout and pickles with sweet wine. John bows deeply in his greeting and I sense a stiffness in Helen when she learns of his name. She casts a questioning stare in my direction as she takes her seat. I introduce the symptoms of John’s congestion and he continues with a fuller description. There is some discussion of the mixture I have prepared and a general agreement that it should offer effective release of phlegm from the lungs. John is pleased at this consensus and claims that the remedy has already improved him markedly.

  When we have eaten our fill, I ask John if he would like to accompany us to my room of medicines. He demurs and says he will rest before further study. The chamber is small and compares badly with the drying room at the Morton’s.

  Helen says, ‘As to your mother, we are of one mind; her trouble is a blockage in the belly, which may harden her stools and hinder their passing.’

  ‘You are direct in your assessment. I had thought the same, but her discomfort began more than thirty days past and she has had some relief, although the stools were compacted. Do you discount a malign growth in her middle?’

  ‘The po
ssibility should not be ignored, but we would suggest a curative for a more compliant blockage before further causes are considered. Your mother has not passed stools for seven days and that is too long a delay.’

  She has a confidence and frankness that is both appealing and bothersome. My talent as a physician is questioned by a young woman, but I must remember that I have other reasons not to dismiss her advice. Besides, am I too proud to admit she may be correct? The health of my mother is at stake and I should be grateful for another opinion, no matter the source.

  I say, ‘I have treated her with rhubarb root and ginger, would that not provide relief?’

  ‘In mild cases it may be sufficient. Rosamund is of the opinion that your mother requires a more robust remedy. There is better solution, but we must retrieve this from our drying room. We have a consignment of dried plums from France, which Rosamund swears will offer the quickest relief. A dozen of these should be taken each day, with two pints of small beer.’

  I note that Rosamund has fallen asleep in her chair. Her head is slumped at an awkward angle. I suggest we move her to an easier position, but Helen says she often dozes in this fashion. I have not heard of dried plums as the essence of a curative for blockages, but I thank her and make an arrangement to call for them the next day. I have no great hope for Rosamund’s advice, but calculate that they could do little harm, and I will continue with the rhubarb and ginger as a companion treatment. I ask Helen if she would like to examine the books on herbs and medicines in my library. She glances at the sleeping figure and hesitates before murmuring her assent.