The Queene's Cure (34 page)

B
ETT SHARPE, I MEAN COTTER, IS HERE, YOUR GRACE
,” Kat Ashley said as Elizabeth tried on several hats with veils. She was not hiding in bed or her rooms one day longer, but neither was she going to have people staring at her healing pox marks. Even if she must go about like some veiled beekeeper or tavern doxy, she had things to do.

“She's come with Meg Milligrew, you mean?” the queen asked, fluffing out the veil she preferred because, though it looked opaque, she could still see through it quite well. “I told Cecil to send for her straightaway, and that was yesterday.”

“Not Meg,” Kat said. “Bett alone and so distraught I gave Jenks permission to bring her up the back way.”

“It's something about Gil,” Elizabeth muttered, jamming the hat on and jumping to her feet. “I pray naught has happened to my Gil.”

Elizabeth walked slowly but steadily to her privy sitting room as Jenks brought Bett in. The only other time she'd been out of her bedchamber in a fortnight was to visit and comfort Mary Sidney. She had worn the mermaid pin, held Mary's hand—for once one had survived the pox, for some reason it did not strike again—and had vowed when she saw how much more heavily Mary was stricken with the pox that someone would pay.

“I am glad to see you,” Elizabeth said before Bett even curtsied. Bless the woman for not gaping at her or trying to peer behind the veil. “Is Gil well? And Nick, too, of course?”

“Don't know, as both have gone missing, Your Majesty, Nick since he got out of Bridewell, I take it. Gil could have gone too, but he 'scaped.”

“Bridewell?” Elizabeth repeated. “The hospital or the workhouse?”

“Oh, no, Your Majesty, the prison. Took there by Dr. Caius. I was too, but they let me go after some questions, things about plaster and effigies and corpses. And Meg's feelings for you, which is only being hurt and missing you. I was praying Gil'd come here, but I hear not,” she rushed on, wringing her hands. “I told him to go to you and”—here she lowered her voice though only Kat stood nearby—“your Privy Plot Council what solves crimes
and helps those in need and that's all of us, 'cluding poor Meg.”

“Meg Milligrew isn't missing too?”

“Oh, no, Your Majesty, I know right where she is. Still in Bridewell—the prison—but I fear they're going to keep her there or worse for doing some sort of treason 'gainst you, which she never would.”

“What?” Elizabeth screeched so loud her veil belled out. “Kat, fetch the others of the council. Now Bett, start over again, slowly, leaving nothing out. I've been a bit unwell and weak lately, but I'm better now.”

M
EG HAD LOST TRACK OF TIME. SHE KNEW SHE WAS
doomed, and she almost didn't care anymore. She'd lost the life she loved as herb girl to the queen— with the dream of being court herbalist someday. Her parents' apothecary shop, which had been her only love since she'd left royal service, was in shambles.

Something dreadful must have happened to Gil. She could feel it in her bones. Ben and Dr. Clerewell had evidently abandoned her, but Gil never would. And that blackguard husband of hers must have deserted their daughter, when she got the pox, shuffling her off to someone out in the heath, wherever that was. Or could that craven bastard have given her away? More like, knowing Ben, he'd sold her for a servant or some such fate.

If there was one thing Meg would like to live for it was to see her girl, poxed or not. And, of course, to see the queen again, for word had come, even in this hellhole, that Elizabeth had survived the pox.

Meg turned sideways on the pallet of rough straw that had served for her bed these last nine days and pulled her knees almost up to her chin. It was warmer that way in this cold, stinking place. She'd never live through the winter here, but she wouldn't have to try. Somehow, Dr. John Caius had gotten her on a list of people to be hanged first thing on the morrow. So today she was just going to lie here and dream of taking her girl—whatever her name was—to court to meet or see the queen. Kat would be there nodding and smiling as if she were the little one's grandmother. Jenks would give the child a ride on his horse, and Ned—dear, pompous Ned—would make them both laugh with his funniest speeches and wry faces.

The key jangled in the lock, and the door grated open. “Get up,” the guard named Clary ordered. “You're being took out today instead.”

“I—not today. You mean—Dr. Caius arranged it?” To her accusation of treason he had added charges of deadly assault on his person. Did that mean he could bump up someone's execution?

“Far's I know. Get up, I said. Men downstairs to take you.”

Meg knew it was the time of day when those who
were to be flogged or hanged were rousted out. When she tried to hold back, Clary seized her arm, bent it up behind her back, and marched her out and down the main stairwell. Below, in what was once a great hall, a few prisoners stood in line, hands bound behind them, nooses already about their necks, the way the condemned were always marched to the scaffold.

“No,” Meg screamed. “No! Not today! I haven't seen a judge! Dr. Caius is not a judge! The queen's own artist—Gil Sharpe—he's coming here with a message from court!”

She kicked at Clary, but two guards came up the stairs to help subdue her. As if she were a sack of hops, they carted her roughly downstairs to join the others.

THE FIFTEENTH

T
HE GUARDS CARRYING MEG DOWN THE STEPS SHOVED
her at two others. One looked so like Jenks, Meg almost threw herself into his arms.

It
was
Jenks. “It's all right, Meg,” he whispered and flashed some sort of rolled document before her.

“Not—from Dr. Caius?” she cried.

“From the queen. You're to come with us for ques tioning.”

“But I've been questioned—by Dr. Caius.”

She nearly panicked again. Last time the queen had questioned her everything had gone wrong, so wrong. And that was just over borrowing a gown and forging the royal signature.

But Ned was here too, her Ned. He cupped her shoulders in his hands to make her look at him. She sagged against his touch so that he was nearly holding her up.

“Meg, we know you've been through hell,” he said so quietly she almost couldn't hear him above the caterwauling of other prisoners. “Bett told us the queen's royal physicians have closed your shop and have been asking questions about your trying to harm Her Majesty. I thought at first you might be suspect, but we don't believe a word of it.”

“We? Her Grace, you mean.”

“She said you would never harm her and thought Dr. Caius has set you up for it to be another dead body.”

“Another dead body? You mean, like that girl in the fountain? Who was she, anyway?”

“It's a long story,” Ned said. “We've all been led a merry—”

“Not so merry,” Jenks interrupted. “We'd best be going—”

“—a merry chase right toward a trap,” Ned went on, ignoring Jenks's advice just as he always had. “You'll come with us without one more peep, won't you now, sweetheart?”

Meg nodded and blinked back tears so she could keep
watching Ned. If the devils in this dreadful place grabbed her and hanged her right now, at least she'd go comforted that the queen's Ned and Jenks had come for her. And Ned had called her sweetheart.

T
HOUGH MEG HAD SPILLED EVERYTHING TO NED AND
Jenks—who told her she'd just have to explain it over again to the queen anyway—she couldn't stop crying in relief.

“You're safe now,” Jenks had tried to assure her more than once, patting her on the back. “She'll never believe you meant to hurt her. I heard her say more'n once, Meg's a healer.”

“She did?” Meg said, dabbing at her eyes. Ned was nodding at that last comment too. She sat up a bit, blessing the way the barge kept rocking her into Ned, back and forth, back and forth as rosy-hued Hampton Court came into view. Despite the gray, chill day, it had never looked so lovely.