by Mary Gentle
Conscious of the smooth movement of muscles under her skin as she stretched, feeling the blood’s beat in her temples, the White Crow smiled ruefully. "You understand their fears. To be dead and buried is one thing, to be cut up under arc-lights and studied . . ."
"How else can some ruffian make restitution for a crime? This whelp had all his friends there to see him turned off, and every one of ’em determined he should be of no more use afterwards but to be packed in clay and left to rot."
Sir William Harvey spread thin, strong fingers; lamplight glinting from an onyx ring.
"I’ve tracked the blood’s circulation, by examining where it passes through artery and vein. How else now can I examine different kinds of blood, without I have blood in profusion to do as I like with? Precious few will give it living; I have to make do with the dead."
Letting go of the third volume of De Occulta Philosophica, the White Crow turned her wrist over so that the back of her hand rested on the table. Her left index finger stroked the skin, leaving a faint pale-rose illumination; all the sensations of the hard bench, echoing cellar, odours of cooking and parchment, cold air and men’s sweat, intensified as she measured the subliminal drumming of a pulse.
"Madam Valentine?"
"Agrippa writes that the heart’s blood is under the Sign of Helios; the blood of the extremities under—?"
"Technically, Thoth or Isis, according to ascendant." Harvey leaned forward, one finger prodding the bench. "Or, as it seems to me in my discoveries this last year, the constitution of blood is as individual as the constitution of your astrological nativity. The magus Agrippa hadn’t my modern advantages. I’ve put blood to Chemicall analysis, finding in it, for each man or woman, a unique combination of such Elements as Paracelsus describes."
"If that’s true . . ."
Large hands cupped her shoulders from behind, the hot palms dampening the cloth of her doublet. Harvey’s gaze lifted—and lifted again. She leaned back against the Lord-Architect’s stomach, feeling him sway slightly, and blinked at the sudden strong odour of wintergreen and brandy.
"You heard?"
" ‘Blood-royal.’ The virtues of individual blood!" The Lord-Architect hit his fist into his other ham-sized hand, with a sound that echoed off the cellar’s curved walls. Four or five people glanced round. He beamed at them.
"Casaubon?"
Overhanging the trestle-table, the Lord-Architect Casaubon held one hand up precariously and wiggled spread fingers.
"Pox rot it, it was there in front of me! You told me. She bites her fingers. Enough to cause blood to flow. And then touches for the Kings’ Evil . . . And heals it, with whatever the virtue of her particular blood is. Amazing the woman isn’t dead of some disease by now."
The White Crow looked up over the swell of his black satin waistcoat, and the brandy-stained lace ruffles at his chins, and met the Lord-Architect’s gaze. Sweat runnelled his face. She stood up, grabbed his sleeve, pushed him into her chair, and hitched herself up to sit on the table between Casaubon and the surgeon.
"I thought you were the one who didn’t believe in the mystical virtues of the blood-royal?"
Both the Lord-Architect’s elbows hit the table. The White Crow winced, feeling the vibration through buttock and hip. He leaned his chins on his fists. "As to that—ask the Queen’s Surgeon, here."
She turned her head. Sir William Harvey’s darkly brilliant eyes met hers.
"He is Queen’s Surgeon, it’s common College gossip."
"Madam, how else can I get protection for my researches? General Olivia will have all bodies religiously buried, I can get no help there."
The Lord-Architect coughed and blew his nose between his fingers. The White Crow gave him a look of utter disgust. He gestured at Harvey:
"Well, rot it! Am I right?"
"The royal family have always been able to touch for the Kings’ Evil," Sir William Harvey said. "Because, passed down from generation to generation, they carry that disease themselves. Except that in them it’s not fatal; and this ability to carry it harmlessly is what, I think, they pass on with their touch. You understand that the disease has lesions, sores, that allow such contact of vital spirits between her and her petitioners; so that even were there no apparent blood, she would still heal."
He shrugged, finally.
"Of course, none of that royal line live much past forty, and most go soft-witted in the last year or so. If I were a man of science who did not value my head, I would tell Carola to adopt an heir. As it is, I praise the blood-royal for its noble healing qualities."
"That’s it. The newest Entered Apprentice could see it! ‘Mystical virtues,’ my arse. Where were my wits?" The Lord-Architect reached across and wrapped the White Crow’s hands within his own. She winced at his grip. His booming voice dropped to a low rumble:
"This city has a perfectly respectable tradition of blood- consecration, and for centuries they’ve been feeding the earth—what? Diseased blood! Of all the whoreson, stupid, rat-arsed, pox-ridden idiocy! No wonder the place is subject to demonic infestation. It’s a wonder they can stand one brick on another!"
Chapter Eight
"I have probably heard as much as I should, unless this is College business."
His chair scraped brickwork as Sir William Harvey stood. His bow was a bird-quick movement of the head. Still seated, the White Crow reached across and shook his hand: a thin and tenaciously strong grip.
"Thank you, sir."
The Lord-Architect, holding his black brocade frock-coat open and burrowing in an inside front pocket, lifted his head long enough to say, "My regards to young Janou, if you ever hear from any others of this pox-rotten College."
"Sir: of course."
She watched the small man’s back as he threaded a way through the crowd that, almost by Brownian motion, began a drift towards the largest vault. White tablecloths and iron tableware shone, beyond the next arch. Smells of cooked pig, quail, roots, and gravy heated the air.
The Lord-Architect took out his hip-flask and lifted it to his lips.
"So you’re to go to the Protector . . ." The White Crow hooked up one foot onto the table’s edge, clasped her booted ankle, and rested her chin on her knee. "And say: madam, you stand in need of Carola’s blood-royal, because I see no way to banish these demonic manifestations but by use of this diseased blood. So you must agree to whatever terms the Queen may make, when she hears of it?—no:"
Her finger stabbed the air.
"No . . . There’ll be enough of her father’s by-blows in the commonwealth that the Queen isn’t the only one with such blood. Do you see Carola summoning up the energy or the courage to spill her blood on the eye of the sun? They’ll search for some poor bastard of the last reign and use them."
"No." Casaubon coughed. "Not at all that simple."
"Why not?"
The Lord-Architect Casaubon sneezed and wiped his nose on the sopping lace-ruffles at his cuff.
"Go home." She prodded his bolster-arm. He coughed again, resonantly; and she laid her hand across his forehead, brushing aside sweat-soaked hair. "I’ll come back in an hour and make a Chemicall Decoction. At least I know which of the planetary numina will cure influenza. Casaubon, will you listen to reason?"
"I don’t want to leave you." His breath touched her hand as she lowered her arm. Hot and moist. He coughed again, cheeks reddening.
"Will you go home in the carriage now, or shall I wheel you home in a cart later? I would sooner," she said, changing from humour to seriousness in the space of a breath, "have someone else in the house with Jared and the baby, apart from Kitterage. Will you go?"
"Of c—asshuuu!" The Lord-Architect stood up, swayed as he threw his muffler round his neck, and bent to plant a snot-wet kiss on the White Crow’s hand. "Of course I will, little one. You may trust me implicitly."
"The trouble is," the White Crow said morosely, wiping her hand on the back of her breeches, "that I do."
She watched his teet
ering bulk stagger away. The fat man ducked his head as he passed under the wine-vault’s arches, knocking with his shoulder a cask that two men and a woman had to grab and replace. A last glimpse of copper-red hair and stained black brocade: she lost him in the crowd.
She turned, walking through into the main vault. Long tables lined the walls. Fires glowed in heavy braziers. It washed over her, the noise of more than forty men and women gathered talking, waiting to be called to table. She nodded acknowledgements; greetings.
"Valentine White Crow."
Hot wire pulled itself tight from throat to gut.
She turned her head. Desire-of-the-Lord Guillaime stood with her gloveless hands outstretched to a brazier. A young woman, not tall; all her thin body bundled up in tom skirts, layers of shirts, a dark greatcoat a size too large. Snow clung to her black hair, melting. "I was searching for you."
"What do you want?"
"Is something the matter?"
The White Crow hugged her arms across her body. The doublet’s studs chilled her hands. "Possibly I’m coming down with the influenza. Well?"
The young woman’s blue-mottled fingers moved to her coat, unfastening buttons slowly. She gave a slow smile. "I would like something to drink."
The White Crow reached out and took hold of the woman’s elbow, the black cloth rough under her hand. Pressure steered Guillaime out of the crowd’s main flow, into the space between two wine-casks taller than carriages. She brushed the young woman’s frozen fingers away and unfastened the coat herself.
"There."
She reached across, taking a pewter mug, and twisted the wine-cask’s top to fill it. Claret glistened. The surface of the dark liquid shook. The White Crow steadied her hand and lifted it, drank a mouthful, and passed it over.
"Now."
"Our friend sends me to make the arrangements for your ‘gift.’ "
The quiet, distinct voice carried no further than a yard. Using both hands, the young woman brought the pewter mug to her mouth and drank. She lifted her head. A red stain half-mooned the infinitesimally fine hairs above her upper lip. The White Crow noted the flush beginning to burn under the fine skin of her cheeks. Little trace of bruises now.
"I’ll want more authority than just your word."
Closed lips moved in a smile; all the warmth of that in eyes that lowered, flicked up again; challenging.
"You expect the royal Seal?"
The young woman bent and put the mug by her feet, a motion that carried her intense gaze across the assembled feasters. She plunged both hands into her greatcoat-pockets, standing with her weight back on one heel, the other hacking at the flagstones.
"I come with a password. Newgate. Will that serve?"
The White Crow pursed her lips and nodded slowly.
"Very well. What arrangements?"
"The coin’s ballast in your carriage. Make her a gift of the carriage and horses. Many courtiers do more to gain favour. It won’t draw suspicion. Nor it won’t seem too easy to her."
"Your Protector’s a fool. Giving her money. It’ll break the stalemate, there’ll be real war—"
"She knows the godless woman better. So do I. I’m privy to her plans for escape."
"You?"
Melted droplets of snow stood in the young woman’s hair, she standing self-possessed with her hands stretched out to the brazier’s red coals. The hems of her skirts were soaked knee-high with black slush. She shivered: a glimpse of flesh between coat-collar and muffler struck by draughts. Her upper lip curved, lifting.
"She’ll give anything to be out of house-arrest at Whitehall. She plans to be across the Narrow Sea and in her cousin’s court before you can say exiled monarch. And stay there drinking, and going with harlots, and dreaming of the return she’ll never make . . ."
Teasing, acid, her tone flicked the White Crow’s temper raw.
"Nothing but gossip, I see. But true enough, I don’t doubt. Well? That’s all. You can go. What else is there?"
The young woman leaned narrow shoulders back against the great cask’s curving staves. "You’re a Master-Physician."
". . . The examination. Yes. Yes . . . Come to me tomorrow. "
Light glinted on brown leather and studs; on the tiny white pin-feathers at the White Crow’s fair-skinned temples.
"Before noon. Abiathar will be out reprovisioning, but if you come to the front of the house, I’ll let you in."
Black lashes lifted. Eyes that seemed of no colour save brightness caught firelight.
A fiddle squeaked in the night air. William Lilly leaned forward into the cold wind, walking homeward; cloak bundled firmly around him. Snow slid cold and wet across his cheeks.
Ahead, a great bonfire blazed. Snow hissed, floating down from the darkness and falling, consumed, into the flames. Firelight leaped on the paving, on the crowds; sent men’s shadows long into the colonnades and porticos of the convent-garden.
"In truth, the skies being so obscured, I had forgot it."
His boot-heels rang on the wet cobbles. He skidded in the slush, walking quickly to keep up with Sir William Harvey and the red-haired woman. The clock up on the portico chimed ten. A weathercock called "All’s-well!" He tucked his mittened hands under his tightly bundled cloak.
"This new comet throws out all computations. It hangs in the Sign of the Archer now, about the hour of ten; moves towards the Greene Lyon." Cold air dried his throat. He coughed. "What charts I’ve drawn you, I can’t guarantee."
She turned and faced him, walking backwards for a few paces on the slick, frozen cobbles. The brown cloak swirled to briefly disclose boots, breeches, and the heavy studded brown leather doublet. No sword-belt, no blade. Beyond her, men and women danced and passed bottles; dogs barked. Torch- and firelight shone on her barleyrow Scholars’ braids.
"I understand, Master Lilly. I had little hope of astral magia answering this, in any case. We need true geomancy."
From the other side of her the small man growled, "Sekhmet’s Comet makes all unpredictable. And portends no great good to any."
"As you say, Master Harvey. Now: my way parts with yours here—"
"Surgeons!"
Glass smashed.
Lilly stared down at the fan-shaped spray of fragments, each catching the light; sharp edges sinking into slush. High above, the weathervane’s cry shifted: "Beware!"
He fumbled his coat open, the hilt of his sword cold even through kid-leather bindings. A voice in the crowd around the fire shrieked. "Harvey! It’s Butcher Harvey!"
The small man pulled up the collar of his black coat. His powdered hair slipped from its black-ribbon tie. "Whoreson excremental rogues—About: we’ll go by Henrietta Street."
The redhaired woman nodded, walking back steadily and quickly beside the astrologer. Head down, her eyes glittered in the bonfire’s light. He followed her up steps and under the portico’s cover.
"Too late."
A stone ricochetted from a pillar, skittering into the colonnade. A man swore. The crowd jerked: a living thing, all its chirascuro pieces of man, child, woman, and dog eddying suddenly like a flock of rooks.
"Their numbers are too great." Lilly rested his rapier’s point on the flagstones. "Madam, if you can—"
Pain stabbed bitter on his tongue.
A hand under his arm dragged him up. Heat hammered his face. His back, snow-wet from falling down, froze, cloth clinging damply to his spine and calves. He grabbed for his dropped rapier. His hands knocked cold cobblestones.
"What . . .?"
Her fingers touched the side of his head and he winced with the pain of the unseen wound. He looked stupidly down at his empty hand.
"Portending ill."
White flakes floated slowly down from the darkness. Fire’s orange and red seared against the blue dusk. Logs spat, burning. A rim of blue flame rippled down the planks of a cart, thrown on to make festival fire. A dozen men ran towards him.
"Whoreson bastards!" Harvey yelled, cudgel in one hand, r
apier in the other, darting out between the pillars. Swords hit. Metal clanged, loud as any smithy, echoing back from stone. A cart swung up and over, crashing down: a woman launched herself off the top as it fell and struck a tall man between the shoulder-blades. Both fell, lost in the mêlée.
A bottle crashed against the wall beside him.
"A pox!" The redhaired woman picked splinters of glass off her sleeves.
"Madam Roseveare!"
Her face shone, blank with excitement. She moved from foot to foot, hands lightly clenched as if around the hilts of a sword and Florentine dagger. Her eyes fixed on the inexpert cut and parry of the brawl. She grinned and showed all her teeth.
"Oh, I wish—"
The woman abruptly spun round, slid down with her back to a pillar’s shelter, and locked one hand in the other’s grip. He stood dizzily above her. Shouts blasted his ears. A body knocked against him, jolting him: William Harvey slid to his knees, back in the pillar’s shadow. Breathless, he grinned.
"Look out, they come. They mean to beat and kill me, I think."
"Then don’t assist them to it!" Lilly grabbed the small man’s shoulder. Fear turned over cold in his stomach. "Madam, what can you do?"
She looked up and he met her abstracted gaze: a little humourous, a little sad.
"I can wish I carried a sword, Master Lilly."
Exasperated, he said, "But you do not. Madam—"
"It isn’t the ability to defend myself, or others, that I miss. Although there are times when a pistol or sword would be of more immediate service than magia. Yes."
She smiled painfully.
"I miss fighting."
Her eyes bright, she leaned forward, rocking just slightly, movements of muscles restrained. Unseen, someone shouted. A hard object hit the wall, A sudden rush of footsteps halted. Each noise made her eyes flick sideways, seeking.
A musket crashed, shot exploding across the dark sky in warning. Noise sang in his ears.
"Now that’s enough." The woman stood.
Sir William Harvey grunted and got to his feet. "My apologies for this."
The woman touched him lightly on the shoulder. She turned to face the convent-garden square. Snow fell on the rioting crowd, the speed and solidity of the flakes ignored.