The King’s Evil

‘You’ve come – I wondered if you’d change your mind.’

‘Of course I’ve come,’ Cat said. ‘Were you successful?’

‘Yes. It’s all arranged. Have you got the money? If not, I can lend it—’

‘I’ve got the money.’

‘We’d better walk there.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you mind? Would you like to take my arm?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Can we manage without a link boy to light us?’

He nodded. ‘I know the way well enough.’

At first they had little need of a link, for their way took them up Bow Street and into Long Acre, which were almost as busy as Covent Garden itself. Up by St Giles’s Fields, though, it was a different story, with long, unlit stretches; it was muddy underfoot and there was the constant danger of stumbling into the gutter. But Brennan was as good as his word and guided her safely, though she grew increasingly irritated by his habit of enquiring regularly how she was managing or whether he was going too fast for her.

‘I do very well, thank you,’ she snapped at last. ‘I’m not made of glass. But I’d rather save my breath for walking.’

‘Would you like me to come with you tomorrow? It’s Sunday – I’m not needed at the Drawing Office. I could walk back afterwards, when I know you’re safely there.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s best I go alone. And what if Mr Hakesby finds me gone? He will send for you at once. You must be there to reassure him. Tell him you don’t know where I am but I’d said I was seeing a friend.’

The inn was a small, low building near the church of St Giles-in-the-Fields. They went through the central passageway to the yard, where there was a long range of stables.

‘Uncle Mangot doesn’t trust them,’ Brennan said in a whisper. ‘It’s not his horse, you see. It’s hired from a neighbour and he can’t afford to have it stolen. Anyway, it’s cheaper to sleep in the yard, and just as safe as inside after the gates are barred.’

They found Brennan’s uncle at the end. The horse was in its stall and the old man was in front of it, sitting in a small covered cart in the yard outside. It was difficult to see him clearly. A rushlight in an earthenware pot hung beside the cart, but his face was little more than a blur against the surrounding darkness.

Brennan hung back, touching Cat’s arm. ‘I almost forgot: if my uncle asks about me, it’s best not to mention that we’ve been working at Clarendon House.’

‘Why?’ Cat whispered.

There was a rustling of straw, and a man’s voice quavered, ‘Who’s that?’

‘Uncle Mangot,’ Brennan said. ‘It’s me. I’ve brought her.’

The man in the cart leaned towards them. ‘You’re late. Is this the girl? You’ll have to sleep here tonight, with me. We leave when it’s light.’

‘Very well,’ Cat said.

‘She’s my friend, Uncle,’ Brennan said. ‘You’ll treat her well, won’t you? You’ll let her sleep in the house? She can pay for everything.’

‘If you wish.’ The old voice sounded papery and uncertain, as if its owner rarely used it. ‘But there’s nothing to buy. She can work for her keep, eh? A long time since I had a servant.’

‘No one must know she’s with you,’ Brennan said. ‘Promise to keep her safe.’

Mangot spat over the side of the cart. ‘I won’t blab if she don’t and you don’t.’ There was a wordless sound in the darkness which might have been laughter. ‘She’ll be safe enough, Nephew. We don’t get many visitors. The refugees frighten away the ungodly.’

Cat came forward into the glow of the rushlight. ‘Five shillings,’ she said. ‘For one week. That’s what your nephew told me.’

‘And a room on her own,’ Brennan put in.

Mangot sniffed. ‘You didn’t mention that before. Seven shillings.’

Brennan tried to argue but the old man was obdurate. Cat put an end to it by taking out her purse and finding the money.

‘One more thing,’ Mangot said to her as he counted the coins in the palm of his hand. ‘You’ll have to share the cart on the way back.’

‘Who with?’ Cat said.

‘His name’s Israel Halmore. He used to be a glover. Before the Fire, he had a shop on Cheapside, and now he’s got nothing.’

Mangot’s Farm was a few miles outside London in the direction of St Albans. It was on the outskirts of a village called Woor Green.

True to his word, Mangot set out from the tavern at dawn. Cat had spent a chilly night, huddled in her cloak and half-buried beside a pile of sacks containing flour. She had shivered almost continuously, though that had not been solely because of the cold. Israel Halmore had arrived at some point in the early hours, waking her from a light sleep. He had been a long way from sober and he had fallen asleep almost at once.

As well as the flour, the cart was laden with rolls of canvas that smelled strongly of fish, and with bags of nails. Mangot was equipped with a pass signed by a magistrate, which permitted them to travel on a Sunday. The streets were quieter than usual and they made good time through the outskirts of London. Halmore woke up and insisted on their stopping so he could relieve himself against a tree. Afterwards, he sat up with Mangot and took the reins from the old man. In the daylight, he was revealed as a gaunt giant of a man, with strongly marked features and a shock of grey curls. His fingers were twisted and swollen with arthritis, which must have made it impossible for him to carry on his trade.

In the back of the cart, Cat pretended to doze while the two men talked together in low voices. Her mind was full of her own thoughts, which were bleak. Unless there were a miracle, she could not see how she could safely return to her old life in Henrietta Street. Once the hue and cry had died down, perhaps her best course would be to flee abroad, to Holland, perhaps, or even to America, where many of her father’s friends had found refuge.

She was distracted by Halmore saying, more loudly than before, ‘Well, I wasn’t going to say no, was I? Not when the Bishop was buying ale for anything on two legs.’ Mangot started to speak, but Halmore overrode him: ‘Clarendon’s a greedy rogue, master, and he’s in league with the Papists.’

‘May God damn him,’ Mangot said.

‘Aye. The Bishop’s doing God’s work in his way.’

‘But it was dangerous,’ Mangot said. ‘Notwithstanding the cause is just. You could have been arrested.’

‘No. Not me. When I was there, we were just standing outside Clarendon House and shouting and booing. I threw a few stones, but only when the light was going and no one could see who it was.’

‘Who’s this Bishop then?’ Mangot asked. ‘What’s his real name?’

‘I don’t know. But he carries a deep purse and he’s open-handed. That’s what matters.’ Halmore had a low, resonant voice that carried easily, even when he spoke quietly; a preacher’s voice. ‘We all had half a crown apiece, as well as the ale. Know what they’re saying? He’s the Duke of Buckingham’s man. That’s where the money comes from, and that’s why the Bishop said we don’t have to worry about being arrested. The Duke will see us right. He’s always been a friend of the people and a good hater of Papists. As for Clarendon, a pox on him. He deserves all we can give him. And I tell you one thing: he’s going to get a lot more before the Bishop’s done with him.’

Mangot glanced at him. ‘Meaning?’

Halmore shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Only that what they’re planning will strike him where it hurts.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

ST OLAVE’S WAS on the south side of Hart Street, not far from the sprawling buildings of Navy Office in Seething Lane. On Sunday morning, I waited outside the church in a hackney. It was a fine day, and I had pulled back the leather curtain so I could feel the sun on my face and watch the church door.

When the congregation emerged, I saw several men I recognized, mainly clerks from the Navy Office or the Tower. I stepped down from the coach and waited for Lady Quincy. The church was crowded, and she was one of the last to emerge from the porch. She was veiled, and flanked by her maid on one side and the footboy on the other. The maid was a prim-faced woman who avoided looking at me.

I bowed to her ladyship, and she nodded to me as she climbed into the coach and sat down, facing forwards. The boy scrambled after her, and she drew him down beside her. Despite the warmth of the day he wore the thick, high-collared cloak I had seen on Friday. I waited for the maid to follow her mistress but she walked away in the direction of Mark Lane.

‘Where to, madam?’ I asked.

‘Tell the coachman to go to Bishopsgate Street beyond the wall. I will give you further directions when we are there.’

I gave the man his instructions and joined her inside the hackney. The boy was huddled beside her. I faced them both, though I automatically turned my head a little to the right to conceal the disfigurement on the left side of my face. Lady Quincy moved aside her veil, and for the first time I saw her face clearly. I felt a pang of sadness, almost a physical pain.

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 are 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.