Virginia Henley (55 page)

“What nonsense! Plague is the poor-man’s disease. It only infects unemployed, dirty beggars. It will get rid of a lot of filthy, unwanted wretches. It’s God’s punishment!”

Catherine stared at her and wondered how her empty-headed friend could be so heartless and just plain ignorant.

Downstairs at the banquet, it became obvious that England’s newly crowned monarchs were not speaking. Each held Court at opposite ends of the Presence Chamber.

Isobel excused Anne’s refusal to take the Anglican sacrament. “The queen is Catholic. She was being true to her faith.”

Philadelphia laughed. “Anne was not brought up a Catholic. She converted only a few years ago. What she did established her power as queen to show that her role as consort won’t be an empty one.”

Catherine was dismayed that all the talk was about what had occurred at the crowning. The threat of plague was being overshadowed by the power struggle between James and Anne. She thought of her own husband and realized they too were having a power struggle.
Men like to be in control and rule the roost. If a wife asserts herself, she is punished.

Cat spoke to Philadelphia about the threat of plague.

“Scrope tells me James wishes to go to Cecil’s country estate, Theobalds, but Anne insists they go to Windsor. Another battle royal is brewing. It will be fascinating to see who wins.”

“It won’t be fascinating if plague comes to Whitehall while they play their silly power games.”

“Scrope insists we go to Carlisle, and for once I think I shall allow him to have his way. There may not be a Border anymore, but Thomas is still Constable of Carlisle Castle.”

Queen Anne summoned Isobel. “Lady Spencer, I want you to pack my wardrobe. We are leaving Whitehall at week’s end. Select a half dozen of your best assistants to come with us.”

Isobel curtsied. Since gossip said the royal couple was arguing about their destination, she did not ask questions.

Anne had made up her mind. She told Margretha, “James can go to Theobalds or he can go to the devil. I am the Queen of England with my own Court. My ladies and I are going to Windsor. Would you discreetly pass my invitation on to Lady Scrope, Lady Hunsdon, Lady Stewart—you know the ladies I consider to be friends.”

“Patrick Hepburn’s wife told me she is returning to Hertford, Your Highness, but I will quietly inform the other ladies.”

The moment Queen Anne withdrew from the overheated Presence Chamber, Catherine retired. Upstairs, she paced back and forth, fanning herself. “Honestly, Maggie, I don’t know whether to open these windows or keep them closed. The night air may carry the contagion. London is an unfit place to be in July. I hope Queen Anne decides to move us to Windsor soon.”

The next few nights were spent tossing and turning in the sticky heat. The following morning, Catherine put fresh linen on the beds while Maggie went down to get them some breakfast. When she returned, she was out of breath from hurrying.

“Maggie, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s amiss?”

“It’s Rose, the cook I was telling you about.” She stopped to catch her breath. “She’s come down with the plague!”

“Mother of God! Is she very ill? Is she expected to live?”

“They’ve carted her off to Bridewell, poor soul!”

“But that’s a prison, not a hospital!”

“Nobody will harbor plague victims, let alone nurse them. They’ve issued new rules—any servant at Whitehall who gets sick will be sent to Bridewell.”

“Start packing, Maggie. We cannot stay here. I’m going down to the palace storekeeper to see when David Hepburn is due to make his next delivery. We’ll return with him to Spencer Park.”

A
n hour later, a worried Catherine returned to her chambers. “I’m afraid David Hepburn won’t be coming to Whitehall anytime soon. He was directed to take the meat and butter to Windsor Castle, after the royal children were moved there. I suppose the best thing we can do is go to Windsor with the queen, then wait for David to take us home to Spencer Park.”

Maggie rubbed her back and said wearily, “Windsor to Hertford is a forty-mile journey. London is much closer to Spencer Park.”

“Are you all right, Maggie?”

“It’s just a backache from climbing stairs in this heat.”

“Sit down and rest. I shall do the packing.” Catherine dragged out the trunks and began the tedious job of emptying the wardrobe. At lunchtime she went down to the kitchens to get them some food and something cool to drink.

Everyone working in the palace kitchens was talking about the dreaded scourge. Each had an opinion on how the contagion was spread. One said that it was the river Thames; another said that it was the air; two others insisted that nothing was so dangerous as the breath of those who were infected. All agreed about what signs to look for when someone was coming down with the pestilence: no appetite, headache, sweating, dull aching pain in the back and loins. Cat noticed with apprehension that every person in the kitchens was sweating profusely.

She took a freshly baked loaf of bread, some chicken, a pear compote and a jug of mead upstairs. When Maggie said she wasn’t hungry, Catherine became alarmed. She poured her a cup of mead and was relieved when Maggie drank it down greedily. She forced herself to eat some bread and chicken breast but it made her nauseated. She decided to go and speak with her mother.

Cat found the Ladies of the Queen’s Wardrobe packing. “Mother, I’m so relieved that you are readying everything for a move. I too am packing. When is the queen planning to leave?”

“Tomorrow, I believe,” Isobel confided, “but I’ve been instructed to take only six ladies, and I don’t know if we are going to Windsor or Theobalds, which is the king’s preference.”

Cat’s spirit lifted.
Theobalds is in Hertfordshire, only a few miles from Spencer Park!
“I’ll go and have a private word with Robert. As a Gentleman of the King’s Bedchamber, he should be able to tell us where the Royal Court is going.”

Catherine made her way to the monarch’s royal apartments. The only men she encountered were guards who would not let her pass through to the king’s bedchamber. “Can you please take a message to my uncle, Sir Robert Carey? I am in sore need of his advice.”

“Sorry, my lady, but His Royal Highness and his Gentlemen of the Bedchamber left this morning for Theobalds.”

Catherine’s spirits sank. “Thank you.” She went back to the Wardrobe Department and told Isobel what she had learned.

“Ah, then it is to be Windsor, after all. We will go by river, an easier journey than by road when I have so much to transport.”

“I’d better go and finish packing.” Cat almost mentioned that Maggie seemed under the weather, but she didn’t want to worry her mother. Isobel had enough responsibilities.

When she returned to her chambers, Catherine’s hopes that Maggie would be improved were dashed. “I’m so sorry you are feeling poorly. Is there anything I can get you, Maggie?”

“Just some water ... I’m so thirsty. I’m sorry, lass.”

Cat brought her a drink. “Sorry? There’s nothing to be sorry about.” Without a word, she filled a bowl with water and brought soap and towel. Cat knelt down before her faithful serving woman and sponged her hands and face, which were clammy with sweat. She chattered to keep her fears at bay. “It is this heat that is making you feel ill. It’s making me quite nauseous.”

“Perhaps ye’re having a wee bairn.” Maggie sounded worried.

“No, no, it’s this dreadful heat. Mother is packing for the queen. We are going to Windsor Palace tomorrow by river. That’s probably better than being jostled in a hot carriage.”

Catherine checked her jewel case to make sure she had everything, and then she locked it. Finally, she packed Maggie’s clothes for her and piled all their luggage at the door.

When it was dark, she helped Maggie to bed, then retired. Cat couldn’t sleep and got up twice in the dark to get Maggie a drink.

“I’m sorry to be so much trouble, lass.”

“You are no trouble. How many times when I was a child did you bring me a drink in the night?”

“That was my job, my lamb.”

“No, it was love, Maggie, and I love you.”
Please, please, don’t let her have the plague ... I couldn’t bear it!

Cat spent the remaining hours of the night alternating between denial and fear. First she would tell herself that it was impossible for Maggie to have the contagion, then she would pray that Maggie’s friend Rose hadn’t infected her. She didn’t sleep until dawn and, as a result, slept later than she intended.

When she checked on Maggie, she found that though she moved restlessly, she was asleep. Cat dressed and, seeing no need to disturb Maggie just yet, went along to the Wardrobe Department to arrange for her luggage to be taken to the queen’s barge.

“Are you still here, Catherine? Queen Anne and her ladies left an hour ago. Arbella was with them. They told me you weren’t coming to Windsor, that you were going home to Spencer Park.”

“Who told you that, Mother? Arbella?”

“No, it was the queen’s lady Margaretta, or whatever her name is. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The queen is sending the barge back for all the luggage. If your trunks haven’t been taken to the Palace Water Stairs, I’ll send a porter for them. You can come along with me; there is no time to lose.”

“I can’t. Maggie is still abed. We’ll meet you by the river.”

“Maggie in bed? Is she ill?”

“She wasn’t feeling well yesterday, but I’m sure she’ll be fine. It was just a backache.”

“Backache? Dear God, that’s a sure sign of plague!” Isobel clutched her heart. “You mustn’t go near her. Don’t go back to your chambers—just send for your luggage.”

“I cannot abandon Maggie!” Cat was outraged at the suggestion.

“Well, you certainly cannot take her to Windsor and risk infecting Her Royal Highness. All you have to do is report her illness and she will be taken to Bridewell.”

“Mother! Bridewell is a prison.”

“It is a temporary hospital. Whitehall is under strict orders that any servant with symptoms of contagion must go to Bridewell.”

Catherine recoiled. “Keep away from me, lest I infect you. It seems Margretha was right; I
am
going home to Spencer Park.”

“You must get through the city gate before you can reach the road to Hertfordshire, and none may leave without a certificate of health. Come with me now, Catherine; it’s the only way out.”

“Goodbye, Mother. Our paths, as always, diverge.”

Cat returned to her rooms and found Maggie awake, attempting to dress herself. “Let me help you.” She lifted Maggie’s petticoat over her head and heard a soft groan. “Are you feeling worse?”

“My head aches something fierce.”

Cat brushed her hand across Maggie’s forehead and found it warm. With stoic determination she pushed her fear away, sat Maggie down on the bed and with what water they had left, gave her a cool sponge bath. Then she helped her into her dress, pulled on her stockings and fastened her shoes.

Cat summoned a porter and paid him to take the luggage to the entrance closest to Whitehall’s stables. She gave Maggie a drink of mead, set her locked jewel case beside her and told her to sit quietly until she got back. Then she went in search of Arbella’s coach driver. Worried thoughts chased each other relentlessly in her head as she searched one servants’ haunt after another. Just as she despaired of ever finding the man, she met him coming from the kitchens munching a meat pie. “Ah, there you are, Stoke. Arbella sent me to find you.” She lowered her voice and said confidentially, “We don’t think it’s healthy to remain in London. Arbella asks that you ready her coach and take us to my estate in Hertford until all this threat of contagion is past.”

“A wise move, my lady—they’re droppin’ like flies hereabouts.”

As Cat climbed the stairs back to her rooms, her legs were shaking from relief, even though she knew the next step would be fraught with difficulty. She opened the door and found Maggie sitting where she had left her. She had stopped sweating, her face was flushed and she shivered as if she was cold.

“I want you to wear my cloak.” Cat pulled up the hood of the fashionable pink watered-silk cape. “Keep your face covered. We don’t want anyone to know you are ill.” She helped Maggie to her feet. “I’ve found us a coach, but we must get down to the courtyard.” She picked up her jewel case and, clutching Maggie’s hand, helped her from the room.

Whenever Maggie moaned, Catherine leaned her against the wall and waited until she could go on. There were three flights of stairs to descend, and in the middle of each, Maggie had to sit down on the steps until she gained enough strength to go farther. Though it seemed to take forever, Cat patiently allowed Maggie to go at her own pace. When they reached the ground floor of Whitehall, her old nurse looked like she could go no farther. “Lean on me, Maggie. Come on, love, just a few more steps.”

When they got to the entrance, the coach was there before them and Stoke was loading their baggage. He opened the carriage door for them and somehow Maggie swayed and wobbled the last few yards.

When Stoke stared with open curiosity at the two females clutching each other, Cat said, “Lady Stuart has had a bit too much wine. Someone told her it would protect her from the contagion.”

“Ah, well, get her inside and she can sleep it off.”

Catherine settled Maggie in a corner of the coach and adjusted her hood so that her face was hidden. Cat was grateful that the movement of the carriage as they drove along the Strand rocked Maggie to sleep. The driver avoided the Ludgate by turning up Shoe Lane, but Cat was horrified at what she saw through the window. Red crosses were being painted over doorways, and people, both young and old, were being put into carts and taken away. As they got closer to the wall of London, she shuddered at the sight of two corpses lying in the street. When the coach stopped at the Aldergate, Cat held her breath and prayed. If the guards discovered that Maggie was ailing, they would take her away.