The Queene's Cure

by Karen Harper

  She tried to stay strong, but could only seize her hands back, cover her face, and sob in great gasps. She shuddered again as if the fever were on her, the marks all over her.

  “Fetch Kat Ashley,” she heard Cecil tell someone.

  Burcote kept repeating, “Calm down now, ja, keep calm or those marks vill get all fiery again.…”

  “ 'S blood and bones! How can I calm down,” Elizabeth yelled, “when no one will tell me anything? And when I have both revenge and justice for myself, poor Mary, and two dead wig-makers to tend to now!”

  NICK KNEW HE'D BEEN DRUGGED, BUT HE COULDN'T shake off the heavy weights that held him down. He remembered now—Dr. Clerewell had not been tending the other doctor's shop in Cheapside, so he'd gone asking for him along Gutter Lane where he'd said he lived.

  Nick tried to sit up but his limbs were made of stone. And those terrible sounds, the moans and shrieks. Closing his eyes tight shut, he tried to remember more.

  “A Dr. Clerewell, you say?” an old crone had asked on the fourth floor of a crooked, narrow building on Gutter Lane, where someone had sent him.

  “Aye, the same,” Nick had assured her, wishing he had so much as a groat in his purse to loosen her tongue, but the Bridewell guards had cleaned him out. “Large feathered hat, has—or used to have—scars on his face, that's him,” Nick had told her.

  “Oh, thought tha's who ye meant. Lives in Chelsea, 'e does, only rents a room 'ere so's 'e can say 'e's a fancy London doctor.”

  “Clear out in Chelsea?” Nick had asked. And here he couldn't hire a boat to go find him there. He'd have to run home to Bett, tell her what he'd learned, get some money, and head out again. He'd been about to turn away when the old crone had spoken again.

  “A man downstairs knows just where 'e lives, so you can ask 'im direct.”

  Nick had gladly followed her back downstairs—and he'd seemed to be going down, down ever since. He could remember asking the man about where Clerewell could be found. The man had pointed out into the street, and Nick had turned to look before the whole world had gone black.

  “No, no, not the leeches again!” a woman screamed so close that Nick jerked upright, craning his neck to see. Not the Gutter Lane crone's voice this time, but someone young. Someone terrified.

  Shock after shock rolled through Nick Cotter as he looked groggily around. The scene was the way he'd always thought of hell, but this was hell with artwork. On the stone walls were crude drawings of what must be corpses: people cut open, parts of bodies, all drawn in black and white.

  He heard before he saw it then. Two men dragged a gaunt, limp body from a cage. Must be a corpse, leeched white as it looked, a young woman in a shroudlike shift. Nick squinted as the men pulled the corpse into a distant room. And then he saw something that shook him even more.

  Looking every bit as mean as a Bridewell guard, Ben Wilton sat across the stone-ceilinged room before a dark door, holding a coiled whip. Between Ben and himself, Nick was looking at rows and rows of caged human beings. Ill. Scarred, maimed, half-dead. He knew better than to yell to Ben for help, because he was seeing this through his own set of bars. But worst in all this horror, he saw Gil too trapped in one of the cages, wild-eyed, his mouth open in a silent scream.

  BETT 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.”

  MEG 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

  There have been many ridiculous tales brought up of the

  mandrake plant, whether of old wives tales, or some

  runnagate surgeons and physick-mongers I know not,

  but by someone that sought to make themselves famous

  and skillful above others.…

  JOHN GERARD

  The Herball

  THE 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.

  THOUGH 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.

  Meg had already washed the stench of Bridewell off at Lord Hunsdon's house at Blackfriars, though neither Lord nor Lady Hunsdon was there. And, another blessing. Waiting for her after one of Lady Hunsdon's servants helped her bathe was a gown of the queen's to put on. Granted, it was a plain dark blue one Meg recognized as one of Her Majesty's old riding habits, but a royal gown nonetheless. And to think she'd once been in trouble for wearing the queen's attire without permission. She also wore what looked to be a pair of the queen's scuffed riding boots and a cape and hood to ward off the river wind.

  “I feel like the whole earth is still rocking,” Meg admitted when they helped her out on the landing.

  “As if the earth were still rocking,” Ned quietly corrected her grammar, just as he used to, but she didn't mind a bit now.

  “I said you should eat something,” Jenks scolded, “and not just drink all that wine back at Lord Hunsdon's.”

  “I was thirsty. But it's going to take me days to get that place—and Dr. John Caius—out of my gut, not to mention the pasty slop they serve in there. I swear, I'd rather eat apothecary plaster!”

  She saw Ned and Jenks exchange surreptitious glances. Her steps faltered. This surely wasn't some elaborate ruse to entice her to let down her guard and then accuse her again? She'd finally figured out that Dr. Caius had been trying to make her admit she'd fashioned an effigy of the queen from apothecary plaster and wax and stuffed it with herbs.

  “Not that way,” Jenks said, steering her around the Base Court instead of into it. “Her Grace doesn't want anyone to know you're back, at least not till much later. She has plans for you.”

  SBLOOD,” THE QUEEN CURSED WHEN SHE SAW MEG, “how dare John Caius and his cronies put my apothecary in my prison! I shall tell the man I've sent courtiers and commons to buy herbs from your shop, and he shall pay for that and more. I see you've suffered greatly, Meg Milligrew. But for your lack of pox marks, you look nearly as bad as I do, so that will serve quite well.”

  After her curtsy, Meg was so overwhelmed she stood as mute as Gil would have. Those purchases from Lady Cecil's servants and from well-heeled minor courtiers— the queen had sent them?

  “I—I long only to serve you, Your Majesty,” she managed to choke out. “And ever did.”

  Her eager eyes drank in her queen at close range. Elizabeth wore a veil attached to a brimmed hat, and Meg feared she must be dreadfully scarred, but none of that mattered. Pinned on the queen's gown over her heart was a pretty mermaid pin Meg had never seen. Mayhap a gift from Robin Dudley, for that's where the queen used to flaunt her most precious pins. Meg could not stem the flood of tears that began to spill down her cheeks. The queen produced a scented handkerchief from up her sleeve and held it out.

  “We shall cry for our losses later,” Elizabeth told her, taking her hand, “for we have much to do. I have not even time for you to fetch me some pox doctor Cecil said you mentioned,” the queen went on as she pulled Meg over to sit her at her right hand—usually Cecil's seat—at a long table.

  “Your Grace,” Meg blurted, “that miraculous emollient has been confiscated by Dr. Caius when he and his men searched—indeed, looted—my shop. And I fear he may hold prisoner the man who made the emollient too.”

  “Then we shall find him, find both of them,” Elizabeth declared, gesturing to the others who came into the room to sit. “Mistress Meg,” Lord Cecil said solemnly in greeting as he took the chair next to her. Kat hugged her from behind. Jenks and Ned sat on either side of Lord Hunsdon, both grinning. Gooseflesh gilded Meg's skin. She was back among Her Grace's covert Privy Plot Council.

  “You must tell us all you know, Meg, all that has passed, especially concerning your struggles with Dr. Caius,” Elizabeth instructed her. “You see, more are missing than that doctor friend of yours and his medicine, namely Gil Sharpe and Nick Cotter.”

  Meg nodded. “My husband too.” She almost blurted out the few things she knew about her stolen daughter, but she wanted to tell of that more privily, then beg the queen for help.

  “What is the name of the doctor we must seek, the one who stands also accused by Caius?” the queen inquired.

  “Dr. Marcus Clerewell, Your Grace. Of Norwich, practicing on Cheapside but living in Gutter Lane, so Nick said.”

  “Bett told me the same,” the queen admitted, making Meg recall that Her Majesty often knew more than she let on. Her hidden eyes seemed to burn into each of them in turn through her veil. “My friends, I am beginning to discern a pattern in this web, and I intend to find and squash the deadly spiders spinn
ing it.”

  AFTER THE MEETING, THE QUEEN ROSE SWIFTLY, NODDED to her Privy Plot Council, and fled to her bedchamber. Despite the happy reunion just now and the plans she had laid out, she feared she was going to lose control and command of things again. Her stomach roiled as horrid possibilities racked her. When she heard Kat's footsteps behind her, she went into her privy closet and closed the door.

  Their meeting had covered much ground, yet she had not shared her conclusions with her friends. Though she had held her own flesh and blood at bay so far, her kin lusted for her throne. She had gainsayed and offended the two leaders of her Royal College of Physicians. And she had balked at permitting human bodies for their dissection. How widespread was the hatred of her? How many of those she suspected could be linked in this hellish plot?

  Ripping off her hat and veil, she bent over to be sick in her washbowl. The retching stopped but her thoughts would not.

  Her enemies had maimed and murdered to attempt to kill her courage and resolve. Someone, somehow, had almost assassinated her with the pox. Though they had not yet seized her throne, they had usurped God's very control of disease and death. So wasn't dissecting the dead bodies of persons they abducted and killed—even Nick or her dear Gil—only the next logical, horrible step?

  THROUGH HER VEIL, ELIZABETH TUDOR FROWNED AT the blank stone facade of Bridewell Prison as they passed by. As bidden, the oarsmen of a plain, working barge put in at the Blackfriars landing just across the Fleet. She could not wait to get her hands on the master-mind—or perhaps minds—behind the pox plot. And, however tired and off balance she still felt, she would never do that recovering and cowering in a rural palace.

  Her entourage included four men she considered her bodyguards, each armed to the teeth: Jenks, Ned, her yeoman Clifford, and her cousin Harry. Harry had more men here at Blackfriars they could use. So that no one watching would realize she was a lady of import and influence, she had brought only one female companion, Harry's wife, Anne. The Carey home at Blackfriars would be their covert base of investigation in London.