The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  “Nobody’s sworn out another warrant for debt against me, have they?” he asked, with his mouth full.

  “Not yet,” she admitted, omitting any details, “And now they won’t. I shall go and pay the tailor’s bill this afternoon in gold, personally.”

  “Maybe I should do it . . .”

  “Oh, no need,” Elizabeth said quickly, terrified her husband would take a fancy to one of Mr Bullard’s latest doublets and beggar them again. “I’ll take the steward and make sure he’s reckoned up the interest correctly. You know how Bullard never makes a mistake in anybody else’s favour.”

  She was watching carefully. Carey’s face had darkened, not smiled. “Come, my love,” she said, “what’s troubling you?”

  Carey left the second pennyloaf buttered but uneaten, finished the beer, wiped his hands and face with a napkin, leaned back and sighed.

  “You see, after I had finished the business at Norham and gotten the money, something my lord of Dunbar said made me fancy a little trip north.”

  Elizabeth smiled encouragingly to hide the freezing of her blood: her adored husband had also crossed the still dangerous Borders, presumably twice, while carrying a fortune in gold and banker’s drafts.

  “Oh,” she said brightly, “And how is everybody in the Marches?”

  “. . . Er . . . much quieter and more law-abiding,” said Carey hurriedly. “So I went to visit my lord of Dunfermline.”

  Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. Alex Seaton, Lord Dunfermline was indeed one of Carey’s many friends, but as well as being the Lord Chancellor of Scotland he was also the current Governor of the King’s youngest son, the Duke of York.

  “And how is his Grace the Prince?”

  “Bloody terrible,” said Carey, looking straight at her, “I don’t know what’s going on in his household but he’s half the size he should be; he can’t walk, he can’t talk. I never saw a sorrier-looking little boy. He’s supposed to be four years old but he looks two.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. She knew Dunfermline’s lady and thought her a giggling little fool but, more importantly, the woman had never been a mother. There had been rumours that all was not well in the Prince’s household and Queen Anne was worried.

  “Is he like to die?”

  Carey shook his head again. “I could see no trace of fever nor consumption but, by God, Elizabeth, he’s as pale as a winding cloth. The Dunfermlines want rid of him in case he does die.”

  Carey scowled as he said this. Elizabeth knew he was more than just concerned about the second in line to the throne. Unlike most men of his lordly background, he genuinely liked children. He was personally angry about the condition of the Prince because the Prince was a lonely little boy.

  “We must make suit to have the keeping of him,” he said directly, to her horror and complete lack of surprise. “I know it will take you away from your place with the Queen but we can’t just let the poor child fade away and die.”

  She smiled at him and his faith in her. “But Robin,” she said, using her pet name for him, “I’m no miracle-worker if he’s genuinely sick . . .”

  Carey shook his head impatiently, “With you looking after him, he will recover. Of course he’s sick. Christ, Dunfermline’s got four physicians treating him!”

  It was a serious gamble. Carey had just sold their only asset and not very willingly, despite the way they needed the money. Elizabeth no longer had her jointure. They were courtiers, both of them, making their living at the new Court of King James. Thanks to factional infighting and the numerous enemies he had made amongst the Scots infesting the court, Carey had lost his lucrative place as Gentleman of the Bedchamber to the King. It had been the only reward he had asked for his three-day ride to Edinburgh when the old Queen died. Elizabeth’s place as one of Queen Anne’s ladies in waiting and Mistress of the Sweet Coffers was worth a great deal to them in gifts and bribes plus the small courtyard of the palace of Whitehall they were using as Grace and Favour lodgings. If they had the care of the young Prince and the lad did in fact die, they would not be able to attend at court any more. What did Robin propose to do for money then? Go to the New World in search of El Dorado? Probably.

  She sighed and put her hand on his velvet-covered sleeve.

  “If you’re sure we should do it?”

  “Of course I am.” Carey smiled at her, took her hand and kissed it. “We’ll take him to Young Henry’s house in Widdrington and I’ll teach him to ride.”

  To achieve anything at Court took time and much manoeuvring. Elizabeth started the process by mentioning her interest in the Prince to one of the Queen’s Danish women and then went north with Queen Anne on progress as Mistress of the Sweet Coffers, in charge of the Queen’s linens. King James travelled separately on horseback, surrounded by his Scottish courtiers and Robert Kerr, his new favourite, hunting from morning till night. Carey, meanwhile, was given funds, horses and attendants and sent north to meet the Scottish Chancellor and his wife and bring them, plus the Prince’s household, south to meet the King.

  The households met at Sir George Farmer’s house in Eaton, Northamptonshire, the carriages of the Queen and her attendants leaving a thoroughly chewed-up Great North Road behind them. Elizabeth wished she could have ridden in the fresh air, instead of being cooped up in the leather-smelling carriage with the Queen who never seemed to mind the constant swaying.

  Queen Anne sewed and chatted and dozed during the long journey. Elizabeth concentrated on not being sick and waited for questions about the younger Prince. They took a while to come: the Queen adored her sturdy eldest son, the 11-year-old future Prince of Wales, and loved her daughter Elizabeth, as did everyone who met her, but seemed embarrassed by her youngest son.

  At last, as the carriages rumbled and swayed the last few miles to Eaton, over a disastrously potholed track, while the outriders cantered ahead, the Queen folded the linen she had been stitching.

  “Your husband saw my little son, no?” she asked Elizabeth.

  “Yes, your highness,” murmured Elizabeth, turning from the window to the Queen and hoping she wouldn’t feel any more queasy.

  “I hear bad things. The doctors they say he is very sick.”

  “Sir Robert was worried about him, ma’am,” said Elizabeth carefully, “He thought the boy very small for his age.”

  “Ay, but my Lady Dunfermline has such care tae him,” said the other lady in the carriage, a stout pleasant-faced Scottish woman who was probably being paid by the Dunfermlines.

  “I do not know what is wrong,” said the Queen, shaking her head. “He was well enough with his wetnurse.”

  “Perhaps he needs a change of care,” Elizabeth said carefully.

  The Queen pursed her lips.

  “I wish you to receive him for the moment, my Lady Carey,” she said, “You may have what you need to make him comfortable.”

  Elizabeth caught a small smile of triumph on the Scottish lady’s face and felt foreboding. It was the wrong reaction. The woman should have been looking jealous because to be asked to take care of the second in line to the throne was an honour, surely. Unless the Dunfermlines really were trying to unload their responsibilities for the Prince.

  “Your grace does me great honour,” she began.

  The Queen’s face was worrying, too; there was a guilty look on it.

  At Eaton house there were riders drawn up and musicians playing trumpets to greet the Queen. Elizabeth waited for the carriage door to be opened and the steps arranged, then carefully held the Queen’s skirts out of the way so she could step down easily. Once on terra firma at last, after hours in the cursed coach, Elizabeth took a deep gulp of air and smoothed her satin apron. Queen Anne was already going into the house where Sir George and his ugly wife were bowing and curtseying extravagantly.

  Elizabeth turned and found Sykes, her deputy, with four husky-looking serving men, ready to assist in the unloading of the Sweet Coffers. After supervising their stowing in the Queen’s dressing room,
Elizabeth hurried to rejoin the Queen as she sat at meat in the parlour. All of the ladies of the Queen’s household were there and rather than disturb them all to sit where precedence said she should, Elizabeth tucked herself in on the end of a bench. She happened to be near some Scottish wives, chatting confidentially in Scotch. As it happened, Elizabeth spoke Scotch quite well, from many years living on the Border, but she never made a point of it and so listened impassively to the gossip while she ate the meat pies, sliced duck and sallet.

  “Did ye ken the young Prince is ay on the road here, he’s like to be here the morrow,” said Lady Home.

  “Ah heard he was dyin’,” said another lady in a conspiratorial whisper.

  “Och no, he’s ainly a wee thing, he’s well enough,” sniffed Lady Kerr. “It’s only Lady Dunfermline at the worriting again. Nae doot the Queen will ask a woman she can trust to have the care of the young prince.” She sounded smug.

  Lady Home sniffed eloquently. “Ah’m verra sure that her highness will ken the importance o’ the Prince ganging tae a woman who’s been a mother,” she said.

  Lady Kerr coloured – married to Robert Kerr, the King’s current favourite, she had never produced an heir, and rumour said she never would unless it were a virgin birth. Elizabeth resisted the impulse to ask if Lady Home could pick her children out in a crowd, since she rarely saw them.

  There was a mob of highborn and highly pretentious women waiting to greet the young Duke of York when the Dunfermlines finally arrived. Elizabeth placed herself firmly at the head of them, despite scowls and elbows. Carey had sent a man ahead to warn her that the Prince’s household would arrive first, followed by the Dunfermlines whom he was escorting.

  Carriages ground their way to the entrance of the handsome mansion, followed by three wagons of luggage and a few outriders. The carriage decorated with the Duke of York’s crest halted, and two nurses climbed from it, reached back to lift someone, followed by a sulky-looking groom who was carrying several bags with a martyred air.

  The women surged forwards to get a look at the Prince, who was still in his green damask baby-skirts. The rumours had only hinted at the truth. The little Prince was a pearly white and crying fretfully, his arms and legs dangling like twigs. There was a silence in the constant babble from the ladies and Elizabeth could hear shuffling. Then a combined rustle of curtseys, followed by murmurs, followed by footsteps. She ignored the full retreat behind her and stepped forwards, with no competition.

  Close up, he looked no better, with hollow temples and dull eyes like a little old man.

  That child is going to die, Elizabeth thought, and could almost hear her adorable but impractical husband growling at her: even if he does die, we must still succour him and God will provide for us.

  She would have preferred it if God could be persuaded not to always leave things to the last minute, offered up a prayer that this venture should not be a disaster.

  “Your Grace, welcome,” she said, curtseying again formally to the little scrap in his heavy damask clothes. There was a strong smell of vomit and a stain down his little doublet.

  The Duke of York buried his face in the nurse’s neck and whined sadly.

  She escorted the nurses to the Prince’s suite of rooms, then found her daughter hanging about in one of the window seats along the passage nearby. Philly wanted to see the Prince.

  “Princess Elizabeth says his legs are so weak he can’t walk,” she explained to her mother. “And his tongue is tied so he can’t talk and he’s like to die soon.”

  “I hope not,” said her mother warningly,

  “And she thinks it’s a pity but she says her brother says it might be for the best because younger brothers of Kings always cause trouble, look at Monsieur in France, and she wanted me to peep at him and then tell her the truth and . . .”

  “That’s enough, Philly,” said her mother sternly. The Princess had not yet been given her own household but travelled with her mother. “If her grace the Princess Royal asked you to, then . . .”

  “Oh, she did,” nodded Philly vigorously.

  So when she went back she let Philly tag along behind her, carrying a mysterious basket.

  They had drawn the heavy velvet curtains although the sun was friendly and bright. The Prince was being held by the junior nurse, sobbing softly and hopelessly, while a surgeon bled him from his twiglike left arm. The room seemed full of men in long brocade robes and skullcaps.

  “Does he need bleeding?” Elizabeth asked sharply.

  “Good day,” said a dark-robed doctor. “And you are?”

  “Elizabeth Lady Carey, whom the Queen has asked to receive his grace,” said Elizabeth, looking down her nose at him and waiting for him to bow.

  “Ah, Dr Hughes at your service, ma’am,” said the doctor with a shallow obeisance, “and this is Dr Pike, my associate.”

  Dr Pike bowed a little. The two other doctors looked over. One nodded gravely, the other actually brought himself to bow properly.

  “Those are Dr Cunningham and Dr Stott,” added Dr Hughes, with great disdain.

  Elizabeth nodded back.

  “The bleeding?” she asked.

  “Ah yes, my dear madam. Please do not concern yourself. It is only to clear some of the ill-humours that have accumulated during his Grace’s travels south and caused him an emetic attack . . .”

  “Was he not simply made seasick by the coach’s motion?”

  Dr Hughes smiled indulgently at her. “No indeed, ma’am, for we are not at sea, are we?”

  Elizabeth said nothing and wondered if the learned doctor was being deliberately offensive or extremely stupid. Finally the surgeon stopped the slow drip and wrapped a bandage around the wound. He was keeping his head down but Elizabeth saw that his square hands were careful to be gentle with the fragile arm, which looked as if it might snap if breathed upon. The Prince wasn’t an ugly child, in fact his little pointed face had something unworldly about it in its delicacy. He seemed even paler.

  “In simple terms, ma’am, the Prince suffers from an excess of phlegm which is the root of the problem with his legs,” explained Dr Hughes kindly.

  There was a snort from one of the other doctors. “The excess of phlegm is, tae be sure, ainly a presenting symptom . . .”

  The senior nurse, whose name was Mrs Gates mixed medicine with mead in the Prince’s silver cup and gave it to him on a spoon, followed by some mild ale. The Prince turned his head and whined fretfully at the offer of a rabbit pasty on a silver platter and was set back in his elaborately carved cot where he lay listlessly. The doctors huddled, arguing in vicious Latin mutters.

  Elizabeth frowned at the child who seemed so utterly different from her own when they had been boisterous four-year-olds, while Philly peered round her skirts, still clutching her basket.

  “I don’t know what to do with him, Lady Carey,” said Mrs Gates with a worried frown as she gave the cup and napkin to the junior nurse to be cleaned. “We’re following all the doctors’ prescriptions exactly but he never seems to do any better.”

  Elizabeth longed to pick the child up and give him a good hug for being so brave about the bleeding, but didn’t want to frighten him.

  “His poor little stomach’s dreadful at the moment,” said Mrs Gates. “Nothing seems to settle it, he won’t eat and if he does eat he purges soon after.”

  “Have you tried sugared milk with a little brandy?”

  “I’ve tried sugar and the brandy, of course, but the doctors won’t hear of milk, they say milk is too phlegmatic and fit for peasants only and a Prince must have none but the hotter drier foods such as meat.”

  Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. It seemed to her that mollycoddled children whose diets were supervised by doctors often had the problem with soft bones that had turned Robert Cecil into a hunchback. Her children were not mollycoddled and ate fish when it was a fish day, white meats such as milk and cheese and cold moist foods like sallets and fruits despite the doctors’ condemnation
of such things as fit only for peasants. Except during famines, peasants normally had sturdy children, she had noticed, and so, thanks be to God, did she. However, for the moment she held her peace. The Latin argument in the corner had switched to English again.

  “Clearly further bleeding at regular intervals is indicated in this case . . .” whispered Dr Hughes firmly.

  “I would prefer a course of steam baths to attempt a complete clearance of phlegmatic matter . . .” insisted Dr Cunningham.

  “Followed by cupellation . . .” added Dr Pike, nodding wisely.

  “The physic clearly answers well and should be persevered with,” said Dr Stott with a sniff.

  “Doctors,” said Elizabeth pleasantly, “I have a suggestion to make.” They turned towards her, Dr Hughes with another kindly smile. “Perhaps as the Prince is so tired after his journey and being bled, he would benefit from no treatment at all.”

  Amused and patronizing looks, accompanied by raised eyebrows.

  “Mistress,” began Dr Hughes.

  “Actually, doctor, you should address me as my lady,” Elizabeth explained pleasantly. “Lady Carey.”

  Dr Hughes coughed but rallied. “Lady Carey, it is of course the Queen’s expressed wish that her younger son be cured as soon as possible . . .”

  Elizabeth advanced towards them, herding them towards the door.

  “It is imperative that the treatment be continued until it succeeds, my lady,” said Dr Cunningham. “Although I would advise certain changes . . .”

  “Imperative?” said Elizabeth.

  Glances were exchanged. “Yes, Lady Carey, imperative, which means urgent and important,” explained Dr Hughes with kind helpfulness.

  Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Nonetheless,” she said with a smile that she hoped would not look too much like the furious baring of teeth it actually was, “the Prince is tired and requires his rest. I will see you in the morning.”

  She was ushering them firmly to the door, mentally cursing Lady Dunfermline for letting the doctors get so completely out of hand, when there was an odd bubbling noise from the cot and a gasp from Mrs Gates. She pushed Dr Pike through into the passage and shut the door herself, before she turned to see what had happened.