The King's Evil Page 4

  Here was the reason I had put on my best suit of clothes this morning and had my periwig newly curled. Olivia, Lady Quincy, was a gentlewoman a few years older than myself; she had fine, dark eyes, a melodious voice and a full figure that her sober dress could not entirely conceal. But the living creature was not the same as the one who had played such a dramatic role in my mind for nigh on a year. She was well enough, I told myself, but one glimpsed a dozen like her every day at Whitehall, and many more beautiful.

  The hackney jolted over the cobbles, and she winced. ‘Let the curtain fall,’ she commanded.

  I obeyed, causing an artificial dusk to fill the interior of the coach. ‘I did what you asked me, madam. I passed on your warning to a certain young lady. But she was reluctant to flee from her cousin.’

  ‘She was always headstrong.’

  I was tempted to tell Lady Quincy of Cat’s betrothal but I kept quiet. It was not my secret, any more than the fact that her cousin Edward had raped her.

  ‘Where is she? Is she somewhere safe?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘She’s a fool if she stays. Her cousin won’t leave her alone, you know. Edward nurses his hatreds as if they were his children.’

  We sat in silence for a minute or two while we rattled through the noisy streets, listening to our coachman swearing at those who blocked his way.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  Lady Quincy looked up. ‘To see Mr Knight. He is one of the King’s Sergeant Surgeons.’

  I looked sharply at her. ‘Mr John Knight? The Surgeon General himself?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘By reputation, yes.’

  Knight was one of the King’s most favoured medical attendants; he had proved his loyalty during the civil war and afterwards when the court was in exile. Last year, he had corresponded frequently with Mr Williamson about the health of the Navy, which was how I had come across him. But Sunday morning was an unusual time for a consultation with a physician or surgeon, let alone one of Mr Knight’s eminence. It was yet another hint that the shadowy influence of the King was behind this.

  ‘Where are we meeting him?’ I asked. ‘I thought he lodged in Russell Street, not near Bishopsgate.’

  ‘He is visiting his wife’s cousin, and he has agreed to see us there before they dine.’

  Lady Quincy took a purse from her pocket and handed it to me. ‘He will expect his fee afterwards – would you see to it for me? And the coachman will need his fare; you must ask him to wait for us while we are with Mr Knight. By the way, there’s no need to mention who I am, particularly in front of servants. You may introduce me as your cousin, Mistress Green. Our appointment is in your name, and you would oblige me if you give him the impression that Stephen is your servant.’

  ‘Mine?’ I stared at her. ‘Madam, it would help if I knew what we’re about.’

  For a moment she said nothing. Then: ‘Pull aside the curtain.’

  I did as she bid me. Light poured into the hackney.

  ‘Stephen? Show the gentleman what you are.’

  The boy sat forward from the seat and pulled open his cloak. For the first time I saw him properly. He was richly dressed, as such African boys usually were when they served wealthy ladies; for they were kept as toys or pets as much as servants. He was handsome enough, in his way, with regular features and large eyes fringed with long lashes. But it was his neck that drew my gaze. If you kept a blackamoor as a personal attendant to serve you in public, it was fashionable to adorn the neck with a silver collar – a nod to the fact that he or she had been brought to England as a slave, and of course a sign of the owner’s wealth. This boy didn’t wear a collar, however. His neck was disfigured and bloated by swellings. He was suffering from the King’s Evil.

  ‘As you see, he has scrofula,’ Lady Quincy went on. ‘You must not be concerned – I believe there is no risk of infection. I took him to Whitehall to see the King touching the afflicted, to show him that there were others like himself.’ She glanced at the boy and added, ‘God has granted the King the ability to heal, as a token of his divinely ordained right to rule over us.’

  ‘How charitable,’ I said. I felt guilty for my earlier self-consciousness about my own blemishes, caused by a fire a few months before: if I compared them with this child’s neck, what had I to complain of?

  In some small, cynical part of my mind, I thought that Stephen’s scrofula had provided perfect cover for our meeting when she had asked me to pass on the warning to Cat.

  ‘I wanted Stephen to see the ceremony of healing,’ she went on. ‘To reassure him. He is superstitious, you see, like all these savages, and he thought it might be a sort of witchcraft.’ She spoke as if the boy were not there.

  ‘And Mr Knight? Do you hope he will cure Stephen?’

  Lady Quincy shook her head. ‘No – only the King can do that. But as Sergeant Surgeon he is qualified to issue certificates of scrofula, as well as the tickets for sufferers to attend the public healing ceremony. Besides, I wish to know more about the illness.’ She swallowed suddenly and her fingers made small, convulsive movements on her lap. ‘About its symptoms. And its causes.’

  ‘But my lady – why do you want me to escort you? Why is the appointment in my name? Why all this secrecy?’

  ‘Because I desire that my interest in scrofula should not be public knowledge, or not at present. That’s why I wore a veil when we met at the Banqueting House, and that’s why the appointment is in your name.’ Lady Quincy paused, and moistened her lips. ‘I have my reasons, and perhaps one day I shall confide in you. But, in the meantime, I know I may trust you to be discreet.’

  The house was old and large, with many rooms and passages that seemed to have been acquired at random over the last three or four generations. It looked comfortable enough but everything was a little old-fashioned, a little shabby. There was a shop on the ground floor, though it was closed. Mr Knight’s cousin imported furs from Russia. He clearly prospered in his dealings but felt no need to advertise the fact to the world.

  We were shown into a small parlour on the first floor. The servant offered us refreshments, which we declined. Mr Knight did not keep us waiting long. He brought with him a hint of wine on his breath, and the scent of cooking. The surgeon was a man who had lived much at court, and it showed in his stately manner. Though he was too polished to show impatience, I guessed that dinner was not far away and he did not want to prolong this interview any longer than he needed.

  After we had introduced ourselves, I told Stephen to come forward and expose his neck.

  ‘So this is the boy,’ Mr Knight said. ‘How interesting. I believe I have never seen a blackamoor afflicted with the disease. I must make a note of it.’

  He beckoned Stephen closer and examined him. His long, deft fingers were surprisingly gentle. Lady Quincy, her face veiled, leaned forward in her chair to watch.

  ‘Is it the King’s Evil?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes, mistress. There’s no doubt about that. And in an advanced state. The inflation is at present mainly in the neck, with the characteristic rosy colour. Tilt your head back, boy. Yes, I thought so. The hard tumours are propagating vigorously under the jaw and about the fauces …’

  Knight straightened and turned towards us. ‘There will be no difficulty about providing you with a certificate stating that he has scrofula. And, in the circumstances’ – he gave a little bow, perhaps in respect of the King’s possible interest in the matter – ‘I will also write you a special ticket of admission for the next public healing ceremony. Otherwise the boy would have to present himself with his certificate at my house in Russell Street before the ticket can be issued. That can sometimes take months, because there is always such a crowd of sufferers.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Tell me,’ Lady Quincy said. ‘How is the disease caused? What is its nature?’

  He took a chair and leaned back, steepling his fingers. ‘These a
re most interesting questions. As Hippocrates observes, he who knows the nature of the disease can be at no great loss for the properest method of cure. But I regret to say we don’t fully understand scrofula, not completely. Generally it is characterized by an indolent tumour or – as in this case – several tumours.’ He prodded Stephen’s neck, and the boy recoiled. ‘Yes, the struma yields. This one – the one on the left here, under the jawbone – will probably degenerate into a stubborn ulcer within the month.’

  ‘And the causes, sir?’ she prompted, and again I saw the curious flutter of her fingers on her lap. I wondered at her agitation.

  ‘Well – let me enumerate some of them, or rather the conditions that may lead to the disease. We find it particularly in children descended from parents who also are disfigured by it. (What a pity we usually cannot examine them.) Or in those suckled by nurses who were themselves diseased. Or who have lived much in humid air.’ He poked Stephen again. ‘Africa is humid, is it not?’

  The boy stared blankly at him, his eyes wide and fearful.

  I guessed he didn’t understand the word. I said, ‘The gentleman means damp, Stephen. Was it damp where you lived before you were brought to England?’

  He twitched his head like a nervous horse confronted by something he does not understand. Mr Knight took this as assent.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I’m not surprised. Another cause is undoubtedly diet – viscous, crude, farinaceous aliments, in particular, or unripe fruit. Or lack of healthful exercise. Or the possession of a frigid or phlegmatic temperament.’ He frowned. ‘The boy certainly looks phlegmatic. Is his bile inert, by the way?’

  I’ve shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Knight hurried on, anxious to smooth over an awkwardness. ‘External injuries – luxations, for example, or strains – or even catarrhs and fevers may lead towards scrofula. Or drinking stagnant water. There are some physicians who hold that a mother who has looked much upon a scrofulous person may, as it were, imprint the disease on her own child.’

  Lady Quincy made no comment. I said, ‘These are underlying causes, if I understand you correctly, sir. Are there factors that incite an outbreak of the disease in a person already predisposed towards it?’

  ‘Well, sir – here there is some debate in the profession. Most of us, I think, would agree that the proximate cause is probably the obstruction of the small vessels by a viscid, inert humour. There are some, however, who attribute it rather to a particular acidity of the blood, which causes it to coagulate and then harden.’

  ‘What is the best method of treatment, sir?’ Lady Quincy asked.

  Mr Knight smiled condescendingly. ‘There is none of proven efficacy apart from His Majesty’s touch. By God’s mercy he has cured thousands of sufferers. Why, by my calculations, he must have stroked some thirty thousand of his subjects. No wonder the people love their King and venerate God. We are blessed indeed.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lady Quincy drily. ‘Thank you for your advice. I believe you and Mr Marwood have a little business to transact. I shall wait here while you do it.’

  Mr Knight and I left her alone with Stephen. At my request, he ordered a servant to bring our hackney to the street door. He took me into a small room overlooking the street. It was furnished plainly as a counting house. There was a terrestrial globe in the corner. A map of Muscovy had been unrolled on the table, its corners held down with pebbles.

  While the surgeon was writing Stephen’s certificate of scrofula and his ticket of admission for the next public ceremony, I stood at the window and stared idly down at the street. A tall and very thin man in a long brown coat was standing on the far side of the road. He was plainly dressed – he might have been a merchant in a small way. But what caught my attention was the fact that he wore a sword, as if he were a gentleman or a bully from the stews of Alsatia: yet he looked neither a rogue nor a man of birth.

  He glanced up at the windows of the house. Perhaps he saw me, though he could not have made out more than a shadow on the other side of the lozenges of distorted glass. He strolled away. I forgot him for the moment as soon as Mr Knight spoke to me.

  ‘There, sir. The next ceremony will probably be at the Banqueting House, unless the King goes down to Windsor. If there is any difficulty, give my name to the Yeoman on duty at the door.’

  I thanked him, and paid his fee. With great ceremony, he escorted us downstairs and handed Lady Quincy into the hackney, where the maid was already waiting. Stephen and I followed her.

  Sitting in near darkness, with the leather curtain drawn across, we rattled down the street towards Bishopsgate. Lady Quincy’s perfume filled the confined space.

  ‘Thank you for your help, sir,’ she said. ‘You will not speak of this to anyone, I’m sure.’

  ‘You have my word, madam.’ I wondered whether she would ask me to accompany her to her house in Cradle Alley, and perhaps offer me some refreshment.

  ‘And I will not trespass further on your time. I shall put you down by the Wall.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, telling myself firmly that the less I saw of her the better. ‘That would be most convenient.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT WAS RAINING again on Monday morning, and harder than before. I stood by a window in the Matted Gallery and looked down on the Privy Garden. The hedges and statues had a bedraggled air, and large puddles had formed on the gravel paths. Only two or three people were in sight, and they were in a hurry, using the garden as a shortcut.

  The gallery ran on the first floor between the garden and the river. When I had first come to Whitehall, I had despaired of ever finding my way around such an ill-arranged and confused cluster of buildings. Gradually, though, I had realized that there was a certain logic to the place. At its core were the Royal Apartments, the King’s and Queen’s, both public and private. From these, two long ranges extended at right angles to each other, enclosing two sides of the Privy Garden. The old Privy Gallery ran westwards to the Banqueting Hall and the Holbein Gate. Here were many of the offices and chambers of government, such as the Council Chamber and Lord Arlington’s offices. The Stone Gallery, with the Matted Gallery above, ran south towards Westminster. The apartments of many favoured courtiers clustered about it. Those of the Duke of York were at the far end.

  On this wet morning, the gallery was crowded with courtiers, officials and visitors. Gentlemen strolled up and down, and the air was full of whispered conversations and smothered laughter. It was a popular place of resort, a place to see and be seen, especially when the weather was bad. It had the added convenience of giving access to so many private apartments.

  Today there was an air of suppressed excitement. The story was circulating that the Duke of Buckingham, one of Lord Clarendon’s greatest enemies, had been restored to his many offices yesterday and was once again riding high in the King’s favour. Buckingham was a hero to the common people and had wide support in Parliament. He had been the King’s intimate friend since childhood, having been brought up with the royal family, and he was extraordinarily rich. Nevertheless, until recently he had been held in the Tower: it had been alleged by his enemies that he had commissioned an astrologer to cast the King’s horoscope, which was a form of treason since predicting the King’s future inevitably imagined the possibility of his death.

  I was waiting for Mr Chiffinch again. He had sent a note to the office this morning, summoning me to attend him here on the King’s business. Mr Williamson had let me go with reluctance, muttering that the Gazette would not publish itself. While I waited, I could not help thinking of Cat Lovett and Lady Quincy. They were not happy thoughts. They matched the weather.

  There was a sudden stir by the entrance to the King’s private apartments. The doors were flung open. The guards straightened themselves, and the crowd fell silent. The Duke of York, the King’s brother, strode into the gallery, flanked by two of his advisers.

  Ignoring the bows of courtiers, who bent towards him like corn in the wind, he march
ed towards his own apartments. The Duke was a fine-looking man, but today his face was red and his features were twisted with rage. When he left the gallery, the whispers began again, with an edge of excitement that they had previously lacked.

  I moved from the window and instead examined a painting of a lady that hung nearby. She wore a richly embroidered silk black gown with ballooning sleeves and a gold chain around her neck. She stared past me, over my right shoulder, at something only she could see. The embroidery of the gown looked like writhing snakes. Behind her, a group of women were entering her suite of rooms through a distant doorway.

  Ten or fifteen minutes slipped past before the King’s doors opened again. This time it was Chiffinch who emerged, pink-faced like a well-fed baby, nodding and smiling to those nearby whom he considered worth cultivating. He didn’t linger, however. He came over to me.

  ‘How interesting to find you here,’ he said, his eyes sliding past me to the painting.

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  ‘That lady you were looking at. The widow in her black gown. She has a look of Lady Quincy, don’t you think?’

  I shrugged. ‘Perhaps a little, sir. But her ladyship is not so sallow, I think.’

  It disturbed me that Chiffinch had mentioned her. He had a genius for finding a man’s weak spots. I wondered if he had sensed my interest in Lady Quincy.

  ‘Her ladyship’s lips are fuller,’ Chiffinch said, pursing his own.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Some long-dead Italian princess, probably. The Dutch gave it to the King at the Restoration.’ He turned away from the painting. ‘Come with me.’ He led me into the Privy Gallery and took me into a closet by the King’s laboratory, which overlooked the garden.

  ‘Close the door,’ he ordered. ‘Sit.’