The Queene's Cure (30 page)

“Not now, mistress. Hold your tongue like Gil does and walk as fast.”

But a shout behind them halted their haphazard parade down the hall. They stopped and turned to see Lord Robert Dudley hurrying after them. The man had a cluster of courtiers with him, including Matthew and Margaret Stewart. And Dr. Peter Pascal was clinging like a burr.

“My Lord Cecil, you cannot leave now,” Dudley insisted. “The queen—and I, as possible, future Lord Protector—might have need of you. Where are you going?”

“On important business of the realm,” Cecil clipped out and didn't bow, though Meg dropped the queen's former favorite a quick curtsy, and Gil bent in a half bow. “Now, if you'll excuse me, Lord Robert,” Cecil said and left the man sputtering at being summarily dismissed.

“Where is the man Her Grace said is keeping an eye on Dudley?” Meg overheard Cecil whisper to Baron
Hunsdon, who walked at his shoulder, while she and Gil came behind. She pricked her ears up even more.

“ 'Tis me, my lord,” the queen's cousin said, “along with an informer who reports to me and is serving as his new footman. So we are leaving Dudley behind, basically unwatched.”

“Thank God Her Grace is surrounded by watchers right now,” Cecil said. “Kat's turned guard dog, and even Mary Sidney would die before she'd let anyone—including her own brother—harm the queen. I believe Her Grace will be safe here, as safe as someone stricken with smallpox can be.”

“Tell
me
where we're going then?” Lord Hunsdon said.

“I believe you know where to find that German Dr. Burcote from fetching him before.”

“Aye, if he's still in town, or in England, for that matter.”

“If he's not, we're doomed.”

THE THIRTEENTH

G
RAY SHADOWS CLOTTED IN DOORWAYS AS MEG AND
Gil trudged up the Strand from the Whitehall landing where the royal barge had put in. En route Meg had overheard that Cecil and Lord Hunsdon planned to ride posthaste to fetch a German doctor, then return to Hampton Court. It was not at all the way Meg had planned things, hoped for things. Though Cecil had put Meg off when she'd tried to mention Dr. Clerewell, she was determined to contact the physician and beg him
to hie himself and some Venus Moon Emollient back on another barge with her.

Meg and Gil passed a few people who whispered furtively, scurrying through the dim, windy evening. The parish night watchman trudged toward them with his lantern yet unlit.

“The queen dire ill at Hampton Court!” he called in his loud, singsong voice. Meg grabbed Gil's arm so hard he winced. “The queen dire ill of fever at Hampton Court!” He went on, passing them with a solemn nod, as if to verify his dreadful words. “Time o' night to stay within. The queen dire ill …” his voice trailed off as he disappeared around a corner.

Gil's wide, watery gaze met Meg's. So Londoners did know and were waiting, like everyone at the palace, to learn the queen's fate. At least the watchman had not blurted out that Her Majesty had the small pox, for that could cause even more panic.

When Gil shuffled along even slower, Meg gave him a poke in the ribs. Ordinarily, if she had been gone nigh on six days with the apothecary shop untended, she'd drag her feet too, afraid Ben would beat her and accuse her of dreadful things. But when he heard she might soon be back in the queen's good graces—if Her Majesty lived— Ben would surely even run her errand to fetch Dr. Clerewell so she wouldn't have to send Gil or Nick.

Poor Gil seemed as sunk-in-the-depths over the queen's illness as she was. He'd hardly responded when
she'd signaled to him on board the barge to ask how his cure for muteness was faring.

Medicine made my throat sore
, he'd finally answered her.

“Have you tried to talk more than usual?” she'd asked. “Have you really
wanted
to talk more?”

He'd shaken his shaggy head.

“Gil, that's part of any cure or healing, wanting it. But,” she'd muttered, “I still say valley lily is what's needed and not the doctor's rosemary cure.”

Gil had only shrugged and plunged back into his dark mood. Now her insides plummeted farther as she saw that the shop was black as pitch. She wondered if Ben had just gone out again or had he left her for good—it would be for her good, all right. She'd expected him to follow her to Hampton Court, demanding his due if the queen took her back. She fumbled for her key tied in the corner of her cloak and unlocked the door.

But Bett and Nick clambered down the dim stairs to greet them. “We been staying here, since folks knew you were gone,” Nick said. “Didn't want these herbs to get thieved.”

“We were going to bed,” Bett went on. “The queen— she's not—not …” she stammered as she hugged Gil.

“Still hanging on, but the truth is she has the small pox.”

“Lord have mercy,” Nick said, starting to cross himself before he jerked his hand down. Bett began to cry while Gil just hung his head.

“Secretary Cecil's gone to fetch some special doctor to take back by barge posthaste,” Meg explained. “But I want to have Dr. Clerewell go to the palace with me to offer his expertise. If he will, considering that he said the doctors haven't yet approved his Venus Moon …Oh, curse it,” she muttered. “I wasn't supposed to tell who made the emollient. Bett, Nick,” she went on, clasping their hands hard, “you've got to swear you won't tell anyone I let that slip—or that Her Grace has the pox either. She refuses to let any doctor make the diagnosis or treat her for it, stubborn to the end.…” Her words trailed off, and an awkward silence ensued, as if they were grieving her loss already.

“You want me to go fetch Clerewell then?” Nick offered. “I can slip 'round the night watchmen, see if the doctor will agree to try to help Her Grace. If only Ben were back, you could have him row the doctor to the palace.”

“Row me and the doctor,” Meg added. “You haven't seen Ben, then, either of you?”

“No,” Bett admitted, reaching out to squeeze Meg's shoulder. “But then he always did stay out nights more and more of late.”

“As much as I don't want him here, I hope no ill's befallen him,” Meg said, walking behind the work counter to feel in the waning twilight shadows for the herb drawer she wanted. She'd get the Venus Moon out next, but she wanted to give Gil some chopped valley lily to
chew. She owed Bett, Nick, even the boy so much for being here with her through the bad times as they once were through the good. And if it was the last thing she did, she was somehow going to get the good times back again.

“I'll return soon's I can,” Nick promised. He darted upstairs and came down with his coat on and a lantern lit for them. He kissed Bett and ruffled Gil's hair, then hurried out the still-open door.

Meg seized a handful of dried lily valley stalks and thrust them in Gil's hands. “This is my own herbal cure for your muteness. Even if you continue to take Dr. Clerewell's rosemary tonic, chew this when you can. And practice trying to talk or you'll stay as rusty as …”

Her words trailed off as four men, three of them clearly armed with drawn swords, filled her front door to block out the last remnants of daylight. In the single, dim lantern glow inside, she could see their silhouettes but not their features. For one moment she thought Ben was back with some of his cronies, for several of them were large men with beefy shoulders. But the one in front, legs splayed, who must be their leader, was gaunt as a rail.

“What do you want at this hour?” she demanded.

“A look around your shop, Mistress Sarah Wilton, alias Meg Milligrew,” the gaunt man said ominously. He extended to her a piece of parchment with a blob of wax on it. “Fetch more lights for this den of darkness!” he ordered his men.

“Now, see here! You can't—” Meg protested as they produced and lit lanterns.

“This, mistress,” he interrupted, “is a warrant duly signed and sealed by the London Royal College of Physicians and is being served to you in person by Dr. John Caius, president of said college. Read it yourself if you can. Our license from the queen gives us
ex officio
authority to search the property of apothecaries and make arrests against those of you acting illegally.”

“But I have a license too and permission papers, which—”

“We deem you have been cooperating with and selling illicit drugs for an unlicensed Dr. Marcus Clerewell, providing him with herbs
et cetera
—and, I might add, for just now prescribing something of your own accord I overheard, when you ‘physicians’ cooks' are never to prescribe.
Ergo
, you, mistress, are under arrest. Search this shop, men, sparing no space where anything might be hidden.”

I
T WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT WHEN CECIL AND HARRY, WITH
Dr. Burcote in tow, glimpsed the lights of Hampton Court from the royal barge.

“The vay you describe Her Majesty, my lord,” the little German said, “I may already be too late.”

Cecil and Lord Hunsdon had rousted the man from an early bed, forcing him to dress quickly and gather up
his things. He'd been muttering to himself in two languages ever since. But those last words sat so hard on Cecil's heart he could not answer.

“
Ach
, if I am too late, I vill be blamed for not saving her life or her beauty,” Burcote groused, sliding down the bench and shifting his gear with him. “Vould they hang me for a scapegoat?”

“I'll hang you from this canopy,” Harry threatened, “if you don't keep a tight hold on that bag of tricks you've got there. Here, let me carry it off the barge and to the palace for safekeeping.”

He snatched the large hemp sack the doctor had been guarding, but let him keep his worn leather satchel. “What's in here, anyway?” Harry demanded. “Why can't you doctors do a better job curing or healing pox?”

“See?” Burcote challenged as the queen's oarsmen bent their backs to edge out of the main current toward the landing. “See? Blame for those ve fail, but no praise for those ve save. And vat's in there? Something that may save her, that is all. Alkanet leaves, flowers, and roots. Because they dye the hands a bloody color, ve know they fight the diseases of red rash.”