But ever since His Majesty returned from Hampton a week ago and came at once to see Louise, sitting by her bedside for more than an hour, Lord Arlington’s spirits, along with those of the mademoiselle’s household, have brightened considerably. And as the king has returned to his daily routine of visiting the mademoiselle for an hour or two after his morning exercise—a hotly competitive game of tennis, a bracing swim in the river (while his servants wait, shivering, on the bank), or a walk in St. James’s Park, so brisk that the courtiers pant to keep up—Louise has brightened, too.
Hannah doesn’t much like the transformation. Her own sensitivities have been worn slightly raw by the mademoiselle’s treatment. She has been in attendance on Mademoiselle de Keroualle every day for nearly a fortnight now, remaining by her bedside for hours, spooning syrup (under the watchful eye of Madame Severin) into her mouth, providing her with physick and guiding her slow return to health. She has washed the mademoiselle’s feverish body and arranged for soaking tubs to be brought to her room, has applied plasters to her loins and helped her to the close-stool. Even though she has little in common with the mademoiselle besides being French-born, Hannah felt sympathy for her and believed that she might even feel a sort of kinship—a belief that vanished as soon as Louise opened her mouth and began speaking. The mademoiselle’s conversation lacks warmth, wit, discernment, or interest, as Louise is capable of discoursing on one subject only, and that is herself.
“Why isn’t the Countess of Castlemaine or that impudent whore Nell Gwyn suffering instead of me?” she complains in her thickly accented English. “Why not Queen Catherine herself?” She utters this blasphemy without shame. “She already has one foot in the grave.” Louise believes that when Queen Catherine dies, the king will marry her and make her queen: a belief no doubt encouraged by Arlington but shared by no one.
The mademoiselle spends the morning choosing the perfect dressing gown and arranging herself in a studied dishabille, so that she can appear to be caught charmingly off-guard, still in bed with her lustrous hair being brushed by two maidservants, when the king and the courtiers arrive. Otherwise she talks only of the gifts the king has given her, and the ones she hopes he will give her. She also speaks of her desire to return to France and sit on a tabouret in the presence of the French queen, the highest honor to which a French noblewoman can aspire. It seems that Mademoiselle de Keroualle is intent on having her revenge on everyone in Paris who once snubbed her. Apparently their numbers are legion. Although Louise is twenty-two and the mother of three-month-old Charles Fitzroy, old enough to act like a woman, she behaves like a child. She resents Hannah’s presence and refuses to take her medicines (unless the king is watching), makes a fuss over her baths and plasters, dissolves in tears and tantrums at least once an hour, and tries the patience of everyone except Madame Severin.
Hannah knows that at least some of Louise’s vexatious behavior is due to her fear and unhappiness at being so unfairly afflicted (for which she has some sympathy), but it is difficult to face day after day. Hannah eagerly looks forward to the time when she will not be tending to the king’s mistress, but recently she has come to suspect that Louise, in spite of her dislike of medicinal baths, will draw out this drama for as long as possible. Her indisposition has captured the king’s interest. Hannah knows that the mademoiselle will do anything, even pretend to remain ill when she is not, in order to keep it.
“Mrs. Devlin, it is already half past ten,” Madame Severin reminds her. “Is it not time for my lady’s morning medicine?”
“Yes, of course.” Hannah requests to be excused from the king’s presence and goes to the sitting room adjacent to the bedchamber. On a trestle table she has set out her syrups and powders. Though Louise makes a pretty show of taking her medicine in front of the king, she refuses to have the vials and jars on the table next to her bed, “like a sickly old lady.”
Hannah uncorks an empty vial. As her father taught her, she fills it half-full with a dark, thick medicine from one bottle, sprinkles in a few grains of a foul-smelling powder, then mixes them together with a lighter, honey-colored syrup. Not mixing the solution until the last moment, just before its administration, contributes to its more potent constitution and is one of the secrets of his remedy. Although everything Hannah does for Louise bespeaks her profession, at court she is never referred to as a doctor or a physician. Every courtier Hannah meets regards her and refers to her as the mademoiselle’s childhood friend who just by coincidence happens to have some knowledge of healing.
What matters most at court, she has learnt, is what is unsaid, what everyone knows but is never acknowledged. The courtiers refer to Louise’s “ague” without irony even though Hannah is certain that each of them (with the possible exception of Sir Granville Haines) is fully aware of the malady from which Louise suffers. But not in word, gesture, or expression would any one of them ever reveal what they know to be true. They are actors of a most sophisticated type, more convincing than any she has ever seen on a stage, perhaps because the consequences of making a mistake are so great. To acknowledge openly an unspoken truth is to risk banishment from court; to be unaware of the tacit realities, the secrets and lies that are the court’s most valuable currency, is to be labeled a fool and never truly allowed to enter.
“How is my favorite doctor?”
“Mr. Montagu!”
Ralph Montagu offers her a proper bow and not-so-proper grin, clearly as pleased to see her as she is to see him. Indeed, Hannah cannot imagine being at court without him, as she would be very lonely without his company. Montagu’s friendship and good humor have made her time here much more enjoyable than she thought it would be.
“Have you heard the latest?” he asks confidentially, standing shoulder to shoulder with her at the table. “Thomas Killigrew, director of the Theatre Royal and the king’s appointed fool, told His Majesty that his matters were coming into a very ill state, but yet there was a way to help all. And then he did say, ‘There is a good honest able man that I could name, that if Your Majesty would employ and command to see all things well executed, all things would soon be mended; and this is one Charles Stuart—who now spends his time in employing his lips and prick about the court, and hath no other employment. But if you would give him this employment, he were the fittest man in the world to perform it.’”
Hannah gasps. “He said that directly to the king?”
Montagu nods. “The king’s leniency is such that he laughed instead of sending Killigrew to the Tower. Unfortunately the king profits none by Killigrew’s criticism but turns his attention only to his pleasures.”
“Mr. Montagu,” Hannah warns, “His Majesty is in the other room.”
“Not to worry, my dear.” Montagu peers through the doorway. “He’s well out of hearing range. But I have to say that everyone understands Killigrew’s frustration, myself included. I spent the earlier part of this morning with the king at the park, where he and the Duke of York made sport of watching the geese mate in the pond, taking bets on which two would pair up. It is sadly true—the king is a fool and the duke a governable fool.”
“Mr. Montagu! It is dangerous for you to speak so.”
“Don’t worry, I know how to look out for myself in this den of iniquity. And in fact I am already bored by the subject. Tell me, Mrs. Devlin, if I were a gander and you were a goose, would you take a turn around the pond with me?”
Hannah smiles in spite of herself. “I believe you take great pleasure in trying to shock me, Mr. Montagu, and so I refuse to be astonished by your very wicked remarks. I will also say that I suspect that underneath your scandalous exterior there’s a better man waiting to get out.”
“What tells you this?”
“My woman’s intuition, I suppose.”
“That can scarcely be argued with.”
“I daresay not.”
“You haven’t answered my question, however.”
“Which question?”
“About the goose and
the gander.”
Hannah smiles slyly and turns away from him. “That is because it’s time to give medicine to a certain young lady.”
Montagu follows Hannah into the bedchamber, where the Duke of York is holding forth about the play he saw the day before. James is a fair-haired, less swarthy version of his older brother, by conventional standards more handsome than Charles, but in Hannah’s view, his good looks are negated by his haughty manner. The younger Stuart is proud, vain, and from all accounts less clever than the king. This has not dimmed his attractiveness to women, however; being successor to the throne is a powerful aphrodisiac. He has cut a swath through the court nearly as wide and deep as the king’s.
Popular opinion is against James, Duke of York being next in line for the crown, for he is an avowed Catholic, but Charles will have no one but his brother as his successor. As long as the king has no legitimate offspring, no one can gainsay him. As time goes on, an heir is looking less and less likely, and James more and more possible. It occurs to Hannah that the king avoids a great deal of trouble and court intrigue by not having a legitimate heir and by having a successor that few people want to see on the throne. Perhaps he is not quite as foolish as he appears.
Hannah crosses the room, bottle at the ready, to give the medicine to Louise. The mademoiselle opens her mouth to the spoon willingly, like a baby bird being fed.
The king clears his throat. “Mrs. Devlin, will my little Fubsy be well enough to dance a coranto before long?”
“I believe she is much improved, Your Majesty.”
“How many days?”
“It may be more appropriate to measure her recovery in weeks instead of days, Majesty.”
“Weeks? I do not want to wait weeks.”
Hannah has little doubt that he is talking about something other than dancing. The mademoiselle would be better off if the king no longer favored her with his attentions, but saying so will endear her to neither of them. Or to Lord Arlington, she realizes, as she sees him looking at her fearfully. “I am sure Your Majesty is well aware of the severity of the fever the mademoiselle has suffered. If she continues to improve as rapidly as she has, I should think that she may be dancing again in two weeks.”
“Two weeks,” he repeats. From his mouth it sounds like a death sentence. “I think not. I think…” His eyes rove from Hannah to Louise and back again as the courtiers hold their breath. “I think she will be well enough in ten days.”
She cannot believe it, but the king is trying to bargain with her, as if the mademoiselle’s health were only a matter of opinion and personal interest. “Two weeks, Your Majesty,” she says firmly.
“Perhaps your physick is not as effective as it should be, Mrs. Devlin. Might it not be made stronger, so that it can work more quickly?” The king gives her one more chance to say what he wants to hear. Arlington appears as though he’s about to have an apoplectic fit.
She disappoints them both. “Even the best physick must be given time to work, Your Majesty. I believe it will require two more weeks.” She looks him in the eye, and for a split second she feels certain that he fully understands exactly what she means: the mademoiselle is to be left alone for this length of time. She hopes he has been able to discern her secondary message, that he will remain continent before climbing back into the mademoiselle’s bed and so not expose her to illness again. But Charles Stuart’s eyes are blank and inscrutable, and she can’t be at all sure that he comprehends her meaning.
The king turns away from her. His interest is seldom held for long. It appears that he is going to speak again, but instead he is distracted when the bedchamber door opens and one of the king’s guards is let into the room. He swiftly walks up to Arlington and the king and bows.
“Your Majesty, my lords, forgive me for my interruption. There has been an accident on Whitehall Street, and we have not been able to find a doctor.”
“Have you called on Dr. Pearce or Dr. Fraser?” Arlington asks.
“Both, my lord, but they are not in their rooms, and no one seems to know where to find them. My captain thought you might know their whereabouts. There is no time to waste—a man has been badly injured.”
“What about Dr. Goddard?” Arlington asks.
The young guard looks embarrassed. He whispers into Arlington’s ear. “I see,” Arlington says, nodding. “He’s in his cups,” the minister informs the king. “What about the apothecary?” he asks the guard.
“His shop is closed.”
“Wait.” The king raises his hand, and everyone falls silent. He looks at Hannah. Arlington seems to know at once what the king is considering.
“I don’t think that is a good idea, Your Majesty.”
“Why should we search any further? We have a fine physician right here, one who is very decided in her opinions and seems to be quite sure of herself. What say you, Mrs. Devlin? If you can treat this man, I will grant you the two weeks you request for your physick to work. If not, I will insist that the mademoiselle be cured in ten days.”
“Majesty, we have tried to be discreet about Mrs. Devlin’s presence at court,” Arlington says.
“You mean it’s a secret?”
“Yes.”
“Then everyone is sure to know.” He turns to the guard. “Where is this man?”
“We took him to the tack room in the stables, sir. It was the closest shelter we could find.”
Chapter Nineteen
THE KING BRISKLY leads the way through the courtyard to the palace gate, the phalanx of courtiers behind him scrambling to keep up with his long stride, dogs barking at their heels. Accustomed to the king’s pace, Arlington slows down for a moment to speak to Hannah. “If you disappoint the king in any way, I will be made most unhappy,” he warns. As he returns to his place at the king’s side, Montagu falls into step next to her.
“Did my Lord Arlington mean that I should fail?” she asks.
“No, he means that the king is testing you,” Montagu says, pitching his voice low so that she alone can hear. “I have seen His Majesty do this before. Do not hesitate to do whatever you must do. If you vacillate or are uncertain, he will see it as weakness, and it will give him good reason to banish you from court.”
“I will not be altogether unhappy about that.”
“But Arlington will be. Beware of him. He may seem reasonable, even harmless at times, but I assure you he never is. He will make good on his threat.”
They cross Whitehall Street and enter the king’s stable-yard. From inside the stables they hear a commotion of shouting and protest, then one man’s voice rises above the others. “Lay off me, you damn blackguards!”
Hannah and Montagu follow the king and the others through an open door, finding a tack room with bridles and reins hanging on the walls and, in a corner, a stack of saddles in need of repair. On a table in the center of the room, under the shabby glow of a rusted iron chandelier, four of the king’s guards attempt to restrain a fifth man, who lies on his back on the table. “For God’s sake, hold him down!” the captain shouts to the three others. The man on the table—not a guard but a rougher sort, dressed only in a torn wool tabard—is strong enough to require the combined effort of all four.
“I’ll crawl out of here on my hands, you bloody bastards, but I won’t have some drunken sawbones hacking away at my leg!” he shouts.
“You’ll stay here until we find a proper doctor to take a look at you,” the captain replies. He is a man of twenty-five or so, of apparent good sense. His voice is heated as he speaks to the injured man, but he appears to have a difficult situation somewhat under his control. “We’ve already sent for—”
Lord Arlington stamps his walking stick on the stone floor and clears his throat. “His Majesty the king,” he announces.
At his words the guards look up and spring instantly to attention. The injured man stops thrashing. “The king?” he says with amazement, as though he is dreaming.
Charles walks over to the captain and motions for H
annah to follow. The captain bows low. “Your Majesty, we are honored by your presence—”
The king waves him silent. “What has happened here?”
“This coachman fell from his post at the back of a carriage, and was hit by another that was coming along directly behind. It wasn’t the other’s fault, they couldn’t have stopped in time. Not to mention that it’s not yet noon and this man here is as drunk as a lord.” He peers past the king. “Begging your pardon, Lord Arlington.”
Arlington purses his mouth but doesn’t respond. The guards move aside as the king steps up to the table and leans over the coachman. “What is your name, man?”
“Nat Henley, Your Majesty.” His spasmodic shaking is an involuntary response to intolerable pain. “I assure you, Majesty,” Henley says, sweating and trembling, “this here hurt is nothing much. I’m a hardy fellow, I’ll be healed by tomorrow with no more than a whore’s blessing, ’scusing your pardon. No need for a doctor, surely—”
“Mr. Henley, I’ve brought a physician to examine you.”
He gulps, and his shaking grows worse. “You are most kind, Majesty.”
Hannah steps forward, and Nat Henley’s flushed, sweating face comes into view. His skin is reddened and rough; his nose appears as if it’s been in more than one scuffle in the past. His thinning hair barely covers his large head, but in spite of his advanced age Henley looks as strong as a stevedore. His shoes and pants have already been removed, revealing muscular thighs and the bloody mess that was once the lower half of his left leg. Henley’s glance skips over Hannah, then roams the room.
“Where is the doctor?”
“She’s standing right next to me,” the king says. “Can you not see her?”
“But that’s a woman!”
“Indeed she is, Mr. Henley.”
“But—but that’s not possible!” Nat Henley’s eyes dart around the tack room as if looking for an escape, or perhaps for someone to reassure him that what he’d heard was a jest or a lie. “It’s a sin against nature, it is!” he protests. “I’ll not be worked on by a woman, by God!” He pushes himself up from the table, but the guards are on him fast, one to each limb, and they wrestle with him as they did before the king’s entrance. Henley’s face suddenly turns pale, and he stops struggling against his captors. He breathes rapidly a few times, then his eyes roll up to heaven and he falls back onto the table in a dead faint.
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