Green Darkness (40 page)

They went straight to Southwark and the Priory of St. Mary Overies where they expected to lodge. But Sir Anthony’s town house was shuttered and barred. The cloister garth was filled with rubbish, weeds and a litter of runty piglets.

Simkin banged on the doors, he shinnied up to a window and peered through a broken pane. “Nobuddy within,” he reported. “Dust thick as me hand, cobwebs like curtains.”

Ursula looked anxiously at Celia. They had no money left, and she had been so sure of finding Brother Anselm, at least. “The neighbors . . .” she murmured.

Simkin nodded and hurried out of the cloister. He came back shortly. “I found an old besom down the street,” he said. “She didn’t want to talk, but says Brother Anselm’s dead—last winter. Sir Anthony’s never been here at all. She seemed afraid.”

Ursula frowned, then her face cleared. “Master Julian!” she cried. “He’ll help us! Simkin, go to St. Thomas’s Hospital, they’ll know where he lives . . . wait, we’ll
all
go!”

They prodded the weary horses. Simkin thwacked the mule as they went down the Borough High Street. As they came up to the hospital’s dingy gray pile they saw Julian striding toward the portal, clutching his staff and bag. He turned at Celia’s happy cry; gave a grunt of astonishment as he recognized the women.

“
Mirabile!
” he said. “Where did
you
drop from?” And he frowned.

Ursula and Celia explained their plight together, while Julian listened, his eyes grave.

“Then you know nothing of the news,” he said. “Times are very bad . . . some plague around, but that’s not it . . . other matters . . .” He glanced over his shoulder nervously. “Can’t talk here—you’ve no money at
all?
”

Ursula shook her head, humiliated by Julian’s dismay, by his gruffness.

“Well,” said Julian coldly. “I can lend you a few pence to get you to Cowdray.” He fumbled in his bag. “I am straitened . . . at present. You don’t know of
the
marriage? The King’s condition?” he finished very low.

They shook their heads, staring at him.

Julian flushed, again he glanced round and examined Simkin. The boy wore the Browne’s buck’s head badge on his arm. “You can water the horses yonder,” Julian said, pointing to the stone trough by the hospital wall. “And you, m’lady, will not be seen in here.” He shoved the two women through a noisy fetid hall lined with pallets and stretchers where the sick lay waiting for admission to the wards.

“Listen,” said Julian, when they were sheltered by an alcove, “a fortnight ago, on May twenty-first, the Duke of Northumberland married off his second son, Guilford, to Lady Jane Grey, Edward’s half cousin. The King has altered his will in the Lady Jane’s favor. Twenty-six peers have signed Edward’s new Devise for the succession. Northumberland commanded Anthony Browne to sign, but Sir Anthony sent word that he could not leave Cowdray. Edward is said to be furious. And,
I’ve
been summoned at last to His Majesty,” added Julian with a sudden gleam of triumph. “John Cheke—Sir John he is now, has prevailed on the royal lad to see me. I go to Greenwich tomorrow, and by Aesculapius, I’ll cure him yet!”

“By Our Blessed Lady, I’m sure you will,” said Ursula, slowly, “but I don’t understand. What has this marriage to do with anything, and what is this ‘Devise’ Sir Anthony would not sign?”

“Sh-h—” said Julian. “Nobody knows of it yet—I mean the people, but it’s clear enough. If Edward should die, the crown goes to Lady Jane Grey . . . and thus, in effect, to her father-in-law, Northumberland.”

“Impossible,” said Ursula roundly. “What of the Princesses? What of Mary?”

Julian shrugged. “The Lady Mary is a Catholic, the Lady Elizabeth’s true religion is uncertain, but either one might marry a foreign prince, and that would be the ruin of England.”

“You approve this monstrous plan!” Ursula cried, her eyes indignant.

Julian stiffened. “I am a physician, Lady Southwell, an Italian physician, I’ve nothing to do with moral judgments. Sir John Cheke is my friend and patron, so I think as he does. I shall most certainly cure the King, whereupon these worldly complications will not arise.”

“Oh dear . . .” whispered Ursula, suddenly wilting. The chill in Julian’s voice hurt her. She felt old, confused and weary. She saw why Julian did not want to be seen with those connected to Sir Anthony, and looked unhappily down at the pennies Julian had put in her hand.

“I’m sorry we bothered you,” she said, “but there’s nobody else in London. I can see that you mustn’t offend the Duke . . . or the King.”

Julian bowed. “As you say, madam.” He gave her a faintly apologetic smile. “Hasten to Cowdray, and as you wish your patron well, talk
submission
to him, for he has totally lost the King’s favor.” He turned on his heel and hurried down the hall to enter the wards and leave instructions for the care of certain patients in his absence.

“Whew . . .” said Celia. “
He’s
grown very curt. I thought he liked us!” She made little sense of this pother about the King’s Devise, signing or not signing, and growing hunger fogged her thoughts. They had bought the last pasty and ale yesterday. “Well, he lent us enough to eat on,” she said. “Aunt, there was a cookshop across the High!”

Ursula nodded sighing. They retrieved Simkin and the horses, then presently proceeded towards Sussex.

At five the next morning Julian rode down the Thames to the royal palace at Greenwich. John Cheke had left orders, and Julian was at once admitted to the presence chamber. It was beginning to fill with solemn-faced courtiers, some of whom Julian recognized—Lord Clinton, Lord Bedford, John Ridley—the fanatically Protestant Bishop of London. There were also the watchful ambassadors, the French Theligny, the Spaniard, de Schevye, sent by King Philip.

“Cock’s bones . . .” cried Clinton in disgust as Julian was ushered in, “Yet
another
doctor—we’ve had quacks enough lately, the Duke had far better get back Owen and Butts!”

John Cheke stepped forward and shook Julian’s hand. “
I
brought this one,” he said. “He’s a friend of mine and has excellent training at Padua. He cured me of the sweating sickness.”

“Indeed,” said Clinton shrugging. “That fellow Cardano was Italian, wasn’t he? A lot of good
he
was. Said the King’s Grace’d be hale in a few days and live to be fifty—hocus pocus with a horoscope!” Clinton winked and chortled at his own wit.

The French ambassador laughed politely.

John Cheke gave Lord Clinton a stern look, compressed his lips and drew Julian into a smaller chamber off the sickroom.

“His grace is worse,” said Cheke rapidly, “yet there
was
so much improvement last month when the Duke brought in that midwife from Cheapside. She gave him potions which bettered him, but now he vomits incessantly—yet he coughs less.”

Julian nodded. He had followed details of the King’s illness as best he could when Cheke had time to recount them, and thought the case very grave, though he had faith in himself and had brought various substances in his bag which he knew had not been tried. Now that the longed—for examination had arrived, he felt a great surge of hope. He heard already in his ears the murmurs of gratitude, of admiration. He saw himself triumphant and secure, at last.

He followed Cheke into the King’s room, and looked down at the bed. Edward lay flaccid with his cheek on Henry Sidney’s hand. The harsh difficult breathing filled the room, and the stench was so unpleasant that even Julian faltered. The serene greeting he had intended died unuttered.

Edward’s eyes were glazed, the lids were lashless, the chicken-claw hands which plucked incessantly at the velvet coverlet had lost their nails, the finger tips were gangrenous. The boy’s belly was so swollen that it humped up like pregnancy. The bloated face was a patchy bronze.

Julian stared down, while all his hopes collapsed and a great anger replaced them. “
Il ragazzo e avellenato!
” he shouted furiously.

Cheke and Sidney both knew Italian, and they both recoiled.

“
Poisoned
. . .?” Cheke cried, then checked himself. “You’re mad, Master Julian, wickedly mad!”

But Sidney bowed his head closer to the pathetic, monstrous body on the bed which was shivering and barely conscious. Sidney’s eyes filled with tears. He had suspected this for some days. “What kind is it?” He formed the question soundlessly, looking up at Julian.

“Arsenicum,” Julian answered curtly, and turned away. He had seen several cases of arsenic poisoning while living with the Medicis; Edward’s condition was unmistakable whatever his previous illness had been, and the story of the recent great improvement, the sudden collapse, was explained. That midwife from Cheapside brought in by the Duke, and her magic potions which had given the little King new energy and vigor—for a month—just long enough for Edward to alter his succession and disinherit his sisters.

“Well, what can you do?” John Cheke jerked at Julian’s sleeve. “I’ll not believe—what you said—’tis impossible—must
never
be mentioned—’tis too monstrous.” Besides real anxiety for the boy whom he had taught and so long guided, stark personal fear showed in Cheke’s eyes.

“I can make him more comfortable,” said Julian tonelessly. “Fetch hot bricks, well padded, and there’s this.” He untied his bag and brought out a vial containing syrup of mandragora, which he held to Edward’s blue lips. The boy obediently tried to swallow, then retched. Suddenly, he raised on his elbow and spoke to the three men in a sharp, stern voice, though his unfocused eyes looked past them at a tapestry.

“Oh, my Lord God,” he said, “defend this realm from papistry, and maintain Thy true religion, that I and my people may praise Thy Holy Name . . .”

“Aye, aye—my dearest chuck,” Sidney murmured, stroking the King, who had begun to quiver. “He will. Be sure that He will—”

Edward subsided a moment, he looked from Cheke to Sidney; his wandering gaze lit on Julian. “That spy!” he cried, jumping half out of bed, “He’s a foreigner—a papist! What does he
here!
Have we not enough torment—Guard! Ho, the guards!” A convulsion seized him, black froth dribbled on his chin.

Julian quickly picked up his bag and staff; he did not need the dismissing signals from the two men by the bed. He withdrew from the sickroom, nor looked behind him as he left.

He rode slowly back to town along the river bank on the bony hired nag, which he had thought never to see again. He had expected to be mounted in future on one of the royal horses. Now his situation was far worse than it had been. John Cheke would never forgive that shocked cry he had made. Northumberland would never forgive it when he heard, as he certainly would. There had been yeomen hovering near the door of the sickroom. When Edward dies, Julian thought, I’ll be in grave danger. I am so now. I do not wish to be hanged, or more likely, assassinated—a dagger in the back, a convenient fire at my lodging. As he entered Southwark and made, as usual, for London Bridge, the full blow of his predicament hit him like a bludgeon.

He pulled up the nag, dismounted and walked slowly to the Thames. He gazed unseeing at the darting wherries, the barges, the whirlpool rapids rushing through the arches of the bridge. He looked across the river at the Tower, thinking of all those it had imprisoned and still imprisoned—those who had in some way offended royalty. He thought of his former patron, the Duke of Norfolk. The old man was still there, but his son, the young, the witty and debonair Surrey—dead six years, reduced to rotting bones.

I must escape, Julian thought. Where to? Italy, of course. But how? There was no money to bribe a passage to France. No money. Julian bitterly regretted the pennies he had given Ursula. Tiresome woman with her admiring trusting eyes. And the tiresome niece, albeit beautiful, fair enough to find a man to help her. Why then
me?
Not that a few pennies would buy safety. The ports were guarded, everyone knew that Northumberland was preparing for a crisis—yet, some fishing smack out of Norfolk—he hadn’t been to Norfolk since his years at Kenninghall, but amongst the Duke’s own fishermen there’d been a boy whose arm he’d saved from amputation—Toby? Robby?—He’d come from Yarmouth. If I can find him, he might sail me over—it’s worth a chance.

Having made up his mind, Julian acted rapidly. He crossed the bridge into the city; he went to his lodgings, and while gathering up his few portable effects he told Alison the circumstances. As he expected she had only three groats laid by, and her comely doltish face crumpled into tears.

“Ye’ll no be leaving me and the child like this, sir . . .” she wailed. “Wot’ll we
do?
”

“They won’t harm
you,
” said Julian impatiently. “Your father’ll look after you.” He glanced down at the child—a slobbery towheaded little boy who was banging his tin spoon on a pewter mug, and uttering a senseless babble. Not for the first time Julian doubted that it
was
his son, there was no Ridolfi look about him, and he was backward in speech and comprehension.

As Alison saw that she was to be deserted, her under lip shot out, while her round eyes glinted. “Good riddance,” she cried. “You and your pots an’ your vials, an’ runnin’ back and forth to St. Thomas’s treating o’ charity cases when ye might’ve been making an honest living at your trade—I’ve m’ bellyful o’ ye,
Doctor
Julian. Serves me might fur takin’ up wi’ a foreigner—my gossips warned me!”

Julian bowed. “So now your gossips will be justified,” he said in a silken voice.

She stared at him baffled, then began to blubber again as he took the three groats and put them in his purse.

“If it’s truth ye’re in danger, and I’ve ne’er believed in your crazy fancies and talk o’ the King—” she said, “ye’ll not be hidden i’ them black robes an’ four-corner cap.”

“
Da vero
—” answered Julian. “Unusual intelligence, my dear. So you will bring me that old jersey doublet of your father’s, the leather breeches, and felt hat. Then you will cut my robes off at the knee, so they can serve me as a cloak. In exchange for your father’s generosity, I’ll leave here my staff, my retorts and medical stores . . . Also—my books.” His voice wavered. He glanced quickly towards his book shelf, the dear vellum-bound companions of all his wanderings. Books of Greek and Latin philosophy, Dante’s
Inferno,
Erasmus’s
In Praise of Folly,
Boccaccio’s
Decameron, Paracelsus,
besides the medical tomes by Avicenna and Vesalius. “Your father can’t read them, but I beg he won’t sell them unless you’re destitute.”