by Karen Harper
“Who would like to take my life and throne,” she finished for him.
THE FOURTH
Both the leaves and roots of bistort or snakeweed have
the powerful faculty to resist all poisons: the venom of
the plague, the small pox, measles, purples, and any
other infectious disease.
NICHOLAS CULPEPER
The English Physician
THE MOMENT MEG MILLIGREW UNLOCKED HER SHOP door the next morning, Marcus Clerewell ap peared in the dim dawn.
“Oh, doctor,” she said, cloaking her surprise, “there you are, and so early too. I thought you'd be by for your goods yesterday.”
“Forgive my tardiness, Mistress Sarah.” He shook her hand as he always did. His fingers and palms were warm and soft, especially for a man. Warm hands, warm heart, Kat Ashley used to say, and Meg knew that was true of this kindly man.
“Please, after you,” he said with a sweeping gesture and followed her into the shop. His deep, musical voice was pleasant to her ears, especially after Ben's constant carping. She was glad her husband had not rolled out of bed yet and probably wouldn't till midmorn. Marcus Clerewell was not born or bred a gentleman, but he seemed one, ever polite and charming. And, for a physician, modest and humble. He didn't talk down to her or put on airs. She had to admit the man was her favorite customer and not only for the amount of coin he spent.
“It smells wonderful in here as usual,” he told her. “No doubt from that meadowsweet you put on your floors, which I believe your husband said you used to strew in the royal privy chamber too.”
“Ben brags too much of my days with the queen.”
“I have no doubt you were of great help to Her Majesty and will be again someday when she realizes how much she lacks your good services,” he assured her as she walked around the back of the work counter and he paused before it.
“Your lupin and snakeweed are ready, your precious theriac too,” she told him, gathering the herbs from behind the counter.
“Good old treacle, as the common folk always call it,” he mused. “But not you, mistress. Sarah Wilton, ever on her toes.”
“I'd have to be to keep up with you,” she said, and they shared a little smile. Indeed, she'd have to stand on her toes in more ways than one, for the man must be nigh six feet tall and carried himself proudly, never stooping or slumping like Ben did.
“I believe what you are endeavoring is noble,” she added as she placed his herbs in a hemp sack that would keep them safe but let them breathe. She was especially heedful of handling the theriac in its horn container with a piece of parchment tied across its mouth. It was concocted of near fifty special ingredients he'd specified.
“Anyone,” she went on, “who is bold enough to work with people scarred by the pox, let alone strive for a cure for them—why, noble is the only way I can think of it.” She flushed as she beamed at him, but from his left side she could not glimpse his expression.
She'd never seen Dr. Marcus Clerewell remove his cocked, big-brimmed, plumed hat, though the breadth of it made him always turn his head to see. At first, she'd thought it strange he didn't wear the brimless, earflapped cap that was the proud sign of a learned doctor. And she'd not understood his always keeping his hat on until she'd glimpsed his face in the slant of window light and had nearly fallen through the floor one day.
Worse than if he were poxed, he had puckered, stretched, and thickly layered reddish skin—like dried mud that carter's wheels had driven through—covering half of his once-handsome face. Scarred skin hung a heavy fold of lid over his left eye. Even his other arched brow, classically chiseled nose, firm mouth, and strong chin could not save an observer from shock. From his right side, Marcus Clerewell, Norwich doctor come to London but two years ago, looked a princely man, but from the other …
Besides admiring this man, Meg had to admit, she pitied Marcus Clerewell, though she never let on. There but for the grace of God walked all men. Besides, she sensed his disfigurement had inspired him to do great things, and she was thrilled to be a small part of that effort.
“I have a surprise for you, mistress,” he told her. “Steady yourself and gaze upon my scars, for I know you have glimpsed them afore. Then tell me what you think, for I would sue for your assistance, more than you have already bestowed so generously upon me.”
Slowly, he removed his hat and turned his left side to her.
“Oh,” she said, surprised by the pale if slightly swollen smoothness of his skin there. “You—dear heavens— you've cured your scars!”
“Not cured, mistress, but covered and treated in the process,” he said solemnly. “With this.”
She tore her gaze from the miracle of his skin as, from his leather satchel, he produced with a flourish an alabaster box and opened it. A thick, creamy substance lay within.
“You'll make your fortune with pox survivors!” she cried. “If it does that for your scars …”
He held one finger to his lips to quiet her. “My scars are burns, mistress, not pock marks. Its use for that is yet to be proved. Now, one must not rub this in, but carefully layer it on and let it set a bit. Sarah, I never told you how I became so flawed, did I, and I bless your sweet nature for never asking as others always blurt it out.”
“I didn't want to hurt your feelings.”
“You've done quite the opposite. You see, my mother's skirts caught fire from the hearth when I was but four years, sleeping in a trundle near the fireplace to keep warm. 'Tis not uncommon,” he added, and she saw his eyes mist. “I mean, of course, disfigurement or even death from such a cause.”
Meg blinked back a prickle of tears. “True,” she rushed to reassure him. “I've heard and seen such and mixed medicines for accidents like that. You should have told me before. Her skirts caught your bedclothes on fire, didn't they?”
“I was ill, you see, with a fever that made me delirious, and she'd tucked me in tightly. She tried to beat out my flames and so died in agony from her burns, but I …” He cleared his throat. “You can imagine the rest, my suffering as a lad, reared by a father who felt her death and my face were God's just punishment for—for what I know not. A bookish man, a hard man… But I believe your kind heart knows how much I've grieved from taunts and cruelties as I grew up. Pox scars, indeed, folks expect to see, but this stigma is so much worse.”
“Glory to God you're not a bitter man. That you want to help others.”
“Yes, well, I had once only hoped to help burn victims, but there are so many poxed. Don't misunderstand me, Sarah. I know full well there would be financial profit in such a cure. I could expand my library and have a work printed about my belief in the vapor theory of various disease and pestilence. But as to your help …”
He stopped speaking as Meg's second customer came in, Pru Featherstone, a tavern keeper's wife. Dr. Clerewell must have heard or sensed the woman, as he swept his hat back on and whispered, “Please, see to your customer.”
Meg tended to the goodwife's needs, but her eyes and mind kept focused on the doctor. A miracle! A medication that could save hearts and minds if not lives. And he was counting out a pile of coins, more than he owed her, even for the expensive theriac. She couldn't wait until the woman left the shop.
“So you've tested the cream on yourself, and it's perfect,” she exulted the moment they were alone again.
“But hardly perfected. It needs more trials and not only on me and the few patients I have access to.” He sighed and shook his head. “It isn't easy for a provincial doctor, no matter that Norwich is the realm's second largest city. Here am I, just beginning a London practice where the learned doctors of the Royal College rule and reign.”
“Don't they, though,” she commiserated. “They keep an eagle eye on the apothecaries and herbalists too, I can tell you that.”
“And yet I implore you that I might leave this goodly sample for you to try on whomever might dearly need its benefits. I've noticed that your assistant Bett h
as a puckered scar on her chin.”
“I could try it on her. But if I'd sell such and it got out, I could be closed down and worse.”
“Not sell, mistress, but use gratis on persons who might need a godsend, like Bett. I've seen how she helps you and how much she loves her son, the queen's mute artist, as you described him. Indeed, perhaps I can work to cure his muteness too.”
“Oh, Dr. Clerewell, we'd all be so grateful.”
“But let's keep that our secret now too, not to get peo-ple's hopes up. And I'd ask only that you—and they— keep quiet about the source of this emollient till we are certain it would work well for others too. I cannot be besieged for it, not now. And if they ask you what is in it, that I cannot tell at this time, to protect my work. Will you help? And do not fret that this is underhanded, for I intend to drop off a second petition for its legal sale to the Royal College of Physicians on my way home.” He lifted his surcoat so she saw a wax-sealed letter stuck in his belt.
His eyes were as warm as his voice and hands. The fact he'd admitted to her that this letter was his second petition to those unfeeling, pompous physicians made her sympathize the more. Their fingers touched as he slid the box toward her and she nodded.
“You have my word I'll help and keep your secret,” she whispered. “May I know what you call it, then?”
“Venus Moon Emollient. Named for the goddess of beauty and the white-faced moon. And I give it into your care, fit for a goddess.”
Meg blushed, unsure if he'd meant to compliment her or not. She took the box from him almost reverently. For one moment she had thought he was going to say “fit for a queen.”
I DON'T KNOW ABOUT YOU, BUT I'M ABOUT OUT OF CAKES, questions, and patience,” Jenks muttered to Ned as the morning wore on in Knightrider Street. They had set themselves up several doors down from the physicians' hall. “No one's seen one damned thing out of the ordinary, and Bess won't like us coming back empty-handed—without information, I mean,” he added, stuffing a piece of broken cake in his mouth.
Ned Topside rolled his eyes and shook his head. He'd never gotten used to how dense Jenks could be with his blunt, naive approach, when Ned was certain using various voices and personae was a better tactic of discovery.
“I'm not surprised,” Ned muttered as they dumped their sacks of crumbs for the ravens that scavenged in the streets. “The crowd only had eyes for Her Grace and, according to what people have said, the coach was down a bit out of their line of sight. But I think we should suggest to her we return to knock on doors farther down the street, since folks there might have had the coach in their view, especially if they were peering out an upper window.”
“Maybe we should do it now and surprise her.”
“Let's just tell her what we found—or didn't find— and suggest it, and don't forget who came up with it first. Halt there!” Ned called to a man with a large hat as he strode down the street. “Were you in the queen's crowd yesterday?”
The man was tall and stately and seemed in a rush. Ned would have given a fortnight's salary to get his hands on that dramatic, French-looking hat.
“No, as I'm just visiting the doctors. The queen's crowd, you say? What's amiss?”
“Nothing's amiss,” Jenks put in, elbowing Ned.
“You mean,” the man said, looking sideways at them and shifting his big package and the wax-sealed missive he held to his other hand, “you're queen's men?”
Ned was going to give a grandiose answer, but Jenks elbowed him in the ribs again. “If you weren't here yesterday, go on about your business then,” Jenks ordered. “Good day to you.”
As the fellow hurried on and knocked at the front door of the physicians' hall, then stepped inside, Jenks mounted, and Ned followed suit.
“He could easily find out what we were doing here,” Ned grumbled. “It doesn't pay to lie or be secretive in this instance. We've even tipped off the eminent physicians. I noted more than one of them staring out at us when we first came, though I haven't seen a face at a window for a good hour.”
“Probably part of her plan, to rattle them,” Jenks said smugly. “Wait till they see Cecil on their doorstep later, eh?”
As they headed away, their horses nearly knocked down a young, blue-coated apprentice as he ran pell-mell from one of the narrow alleys into the street. “Ho, can you tell me if I'm too late for the queen's kindness then?” he called to them. “My master wouldn't let me go two days in a row, so I sneaked out.”
They reigned in, and Ned leaned an arm on his pommel to bend down to regard the man at closer range. “You saw the queen here yesterday, did you?”
“Aye, first time 'cause he always keeps me working. Pewtersmith's man I am, down on Cheapside next to the Rose and Thorn. Say,” he said, looking up at Jenks, “you were in her procession. You the guard wedded to that cloaked maid in the crowd, the one with sunset hair like Her Majesty's?”
Ned and Jenks exchanged quick glances. “Hair the color of the queen's, you say?” Ned asked.
“Certes, in a cloak and hood. Standing in the alley, she was. And then run off when I said she looked like the queen.”
“Not just hair hue, but the maid's face too?” Ned prompted.
The lad frowned and scratched his head right through his cap. “Aye, that's the way of it though none's so fair as our fair queen.”
“Well said, man,” Ned said and flipped him a groat. He caught it easily and bit it to be certain it was real. Ned thought that one piece of information just might make up for the wasted saffron cakes they'd passed out to the rabble. This man had given them something to go on, though Jenks might not have caught the import of it.
“That girl in the street could have been Meg,” Jenks blurted out to dash his hopes, “though I suppose other maids have the queen's coloring too. But our old friend would never do a thing to hurt Her Grace. Meg yet loves her dear so there's no motive, as Cecil would say.”
“Of course not,” Ned clipped out and turned away before he rolled his eyes at the man's stupidity. When the apprentice hurried off and Jenks spurred his horse, Ned yelled, “Stay!”
“Me? Stay why?” Jenks challenged, pulling up.
“I believe you should stay behind and knock on a few of those house doors. It was a good suggestion you had— to do it now.”
“I should? And what of you then?”
“Her Majesty would certainly trust that task to you alone, and I am certain you will do a fine job of it. I'll ride a bit down these narrow alleys to see if there is a discarded trunk or large sack in which that effigy might have been carried. I'll meet you back at Whitehall.”
Before Jenks could protest, Ned wheeled away. He'd make short shrift of the alleys all right, because he had a visit to make he didn't want Jenks or the queen to know a thing about.
KAT ASHLEY, WITH ANNE CAREY AS COMPANION, RODE toward the vast manors and privy apartments in the enclave called Blackfriars, once a massive monastery. After the dissolution of the Catholic Church's vast holdings in England, the crown had taken over such church property for its own use.
Westminster Abbey, on the far side of Whitehall, had become a Protestant church and a secular college. To the east, prime Thames-side land once boasting the chapel, cloisters, gardens, and dormitories of the black-garbed friars was now the elite environs of important court personages like the Careys. The monks' former supply rooms, infirmary, and sanctuaries also provided extra storage for royal barge trappings, masque and pageant properties, and, as was Tudor tradition, the great royal wardrobe. Though the queen's seasonal gowns and accessories were kept in her palace of current residence, that was too meager a space for all she was coming to possess.
With their treasures bundled within, daily wardrobe carts trundled back and forth from palace to wardrobe, a brick building off Thames Street which had housed the black friars' sewing and mending shops before the Tudors took it over. Kat felt so tired she'd almost taken one of the carts today, settled down amidst the royal attire. She could ha
ve ridden a barge, too, but you might know all of them were out fetching goods or people.
“Are you quite certain you won't mind if I stop round to see my children before we head back to Whitehall?” Anne asked, as she drew her horse up within Blackfriars' once-hallowed precincts. Despite being Lord Hunsdon's wife, Anne didn't know why the Mistress of the Royal Robes was really here. The queen insisted that her Privy Plot Council keep secrets, even from spouses. As far as Kat knew, no one had broken their pledge of honor yet—hopefully not even the disgraced Sarah Wilton, alias Meg Milligrew, who had known her share of them.
“I expected you to see your little ones,” Kat assured Anne. “Go on then, and I'll meet you here at the wardrobe in an hour.” Kat figured it wouldn't take her long to cross-question the guard and give the wardrobe girls a good going over about the missing gown and petticoats.
The old woman dismounted with difficulty, then stomped over and cuffed the dozing guard, slumped on a bench in the sun by the wardrobe door. He lunged to his feet, cursing until he saw who had smacked him. He swept the door open for her with, “First Lady here unannounced!”
“Next time you'll watch that door proper and help me dismount too!” Kat muttered as she entered the cool, vast building.
“Queen's First Lady of the Wardrobe here!” the guard bellowed a second time, then beat a hasty retreat, closing the door behind him.
Seeing no one down the shadowy rows of suspended garments, Kat nonetheless heard scurrying, as if she'd stirred up a nest of mice in a larder. The mingled scents of lavender, rosewater, and lime curled around her to calm her nerves.
Finally, the two men who drove the delivery cart and the two women who did the mending and scenting fell into a line, dropping ragged curtsies and bows as if she were the queen herself. Though the main laundry, where most things were boiled and bleached, was in the outbuildings of Whitehall, two light-soil laundresses came running, wet to their elbows. She'd forgotten about them. She supposed she should separate this lot and go at them one at a time, but she had not the patience nor strength for that.