The Queene's Cure (32 page)

She jumped away from the window as a key grated in the lock. The same crude, beefy woman who had locked her in here last night entered and thrust a dented pewter mug full of gruel at Meg.

“Eat quick 'cause you got a 'terr'gation coming.”

She banged back out. Meg could not stomach the cold, congealed stuff. How far away the fancy fineries she'd used to eat at court, some from the queen's own table.

Soon she followed the woman down the hall and up a curving flight of stone stairs into a chamber with a deep window overlooking the Thames and a single table and chair. Dr. John Caius sat at it; behind Meg was a secretary, standing at a small, rickety lectern, with his pen evidently poised to take down all she said.

“Who is Dr. Marcus Clerewell to you, Sarah Wilton, alias Meg Milligrew?” Caius asked without ado.

“A customer of herbs,” she replied crisply. She recalled Her Majesty telling her once that Lord Cecil had counseled her, before she was queen, never to embellish an answer, only to give the interrogator the minimum of what was asked. Meg was quite pleased her voice was
strong. Caius's head snapped up at her simple reply, which gave her the idea. Not only would she not cower before him, but she would use the tone and diction Ned Topside had taught her, court talk for when she used to emulate the queen herself.

“Then why did you send your man Cotter to fetch him at night, last night?” he plunged on.

“I had just returned from Hampton Court where I learned the queen, whom I used to serve, was very ill. Since I knew Dr. Clerewell had dealt with pox patients, I thought—”

“Been to court after being expelled from there, have you, and trying to get close to the queen again,
sub rosa
?”

Meg wanted to blurt out that the queen had sent for her, but she still wasn't certain why and didn't trust this vile man not to read something dreadful into it. Besides, she didn't know what
sub rosa
meant. So, fighting for calm, she returned to his earlier question.

“Dr. Clerewell had told me he was adept at treating pox patients. He had bought herbs from me for such purpose. I had hopes he would be able to volunteer his services to Her Maj—”

Caius's bony fist banged the table. “
Maxima Regina
has educated, royal doctors, has the Royal College of Physicians, including me, at her beck and call and you—
you
presume to decide who will treat her? I'm sure you would have liked to treat her too, and for a handsome reward! Don't put on your I-once-worked-for-the-queen
airs with me, Mistress Apothecary. Don't you try to lecture me!”

“I was merely answering your question, doctor,” she retorted in such ringing tones his dark eyes bulged.

“The papers, sirrah. Come on, come on!” Caius ordered the man behind her. His lackey leaped forward with two letters, which she recognized as hers and Clerewell's. She knew now she should never have saved them, but she had been so proud. How she had reveled in the fact Clerewell admired her for once working with the queen.

“I shall now quote that Norwich, unlicensed doctor—”

“He never told me he did not have a license. He is a brilliant man who understands his patients' sufferings because of his own.”

“Do not interrupt me, mistress!” he shouted, holding one letter up before his eyes to catch more window light. “I am quoting here directly,” Caius went on with a sniff. “This Dr. Clerewell writes that you and he ‘have forged a partnership for particular causes.’ Through ‘your former days in service to our queen and your skill with herbal healings,’ he claims he ‘may accomplish his aim.’ And what might that aim be, mistress? Your husband, when questioned, admitted that Dr. Clerewell paid you hand-somely—
very
handsomely—
id est
, for mere herbs.”

“No doubt you should have Dr. Clerewell speak for himself, as you have evidently let my husband do so, doctor.”

“Has Clerewell sworn you to silence in some secret pact?” “He asked me to be discreet about some things, and I would honor that.”

“Aha,” he said, leaning back in his chair and looking entirely pleased for some reason she could not fathom. “Then to your reply to him,” he said, switching letters. “You insist on ‘privy correspondence’ and say you are ‘pleased to keep his secret while putting on trial the V.M.E.’ What secret, precisely, mistress? And those three letters are your code for …”

“Again, you must ask him.”

“You refuse to answer. Write that down, man. And note, too, that the letter continues in like vein as the accused advises Dr. Clerewell on how to ‘have a quick mo-ment's access to her’—
id est
, to Her Majesty—hoping ‘she is caught off guard.’ And then the most damning words: ‘I shall be there watching—and praying for—vic-torious results.’ ”

“What are you implying?” Meg demanded, gripping her hands so tightly before her that her fingers went numb. “The doctor asked me how he could get a scrofula patient touched by the queen when you did not include her in your set list.”

“Ah—accusing me again. You are bitter and subversive against the grant of power to the Royal College of Physicians to control London's apothecaries, are you not? But I repeat, woman, what exactly does your code V.M.E.
mean? You might as well admit it, for I have ferreted out your secrets.”

“My secrets? Many an apothecary has hinted to a customer what old healing herbs may work for a cure as I did to Gil Sharpe. And many have sold something they did not have permission for. But I did not sell that ointment in the alabaster box! I will pay a fine then, but—”

“A fine?” he bellowed, his voice mocking. “Mistress Sarah Wilton, alias Meg Milligrew, there are no fines for treason, but only torments, trial, and death. Though the queen's license gives the Royal College permission to jail apothecaries who subvert our power and grants us leave to incarcerate you in any prison but the Tower, you have been brought to Bridewell.”

Meg shook her head to clear it. Had he said treason? But that meant against the queen. Either he was mad or she was. She tried to follow all he had said. Bridewell was a political prison. Then he must have said treason indeed.

“I cannot fathom what you mean,” she insisted, sounding deflated and frightened. “All of your words and accusations are as obscure as your fancy Latin phrases.”

“All right then.
Inter nos
, mistress, let me clarify. I believe you and this missing Dr. Clerewell are in league to harm the queen. You arranged for Her Majesty to be frightened, perhaps even warned, by presenting her with a poxed effigy outside our physicians' hall, hoping to cast
blame on us. You had Dr. Clerewell place a leeched body in her privy fountain …” His dreadful words rolled on while she just stared agape at him.

“Then in the sacred ceremony at Westminster,” he went on, “which was under the Royal Physicians' watch and care, you planned to—”

“To what?” she cried, grasping where his accusations might be going. “You are insane!”

“Am I? All my evidence and your confessions lead me to believe that you and your cohort Clerewell meant to assassinate the queen in the Abbey, then make a quick escape through the ensuing chaos and the crowd.”

“No!” she gasped, staggering back. “No—I—”

“Yes, and I shall formally accuse you of such treason. But then, I surmise you changed your mind, perhaps because there were so many of us doctors standing by. So you connived to go to Hampton Court, hoping to get near her there. But that brings me back to this letter which incriminates you with your ‘praying for victorious results,’ as you put it. And your code of V.M.E.? I warrant that stands for the ‘Victorious Murder of Elizabeth,’ does it not?”

Meg wanted to deny it, but she was as mute as Gil. The walls wavered. She fought to keep her balance, for she must not appear guilty. Yet the ceiling spun, and the floor leaped up to meet her.

THE FOURTEENTH

T
HE MOMENT THE GUARDS THREW NICK COTTER OUT
of Bridewell Prison, he headed toward home. He'd been questioned hard by Dr. Caius about Meg's doings, mostly things he didn't know and couldn't believe. But Nick had finally admitted that Meg had tried a fancy face cream on Bett, so Bett wouldn't be tortured for answers, as the doctor threatened. The man had barely mentioned how Meg had told Gil to chew lily valley root, which Nick figured was all she'd really done illegal. The questions about treason had to be rubbish.

But the ones about Meg's feelings toward the queen
scared him. Did Sarah Wilton, alias Meg Milligrew, want revenge? Did he ever hear her talk about dosing the queen if she took sick? And then so many lamebrained questions about things like was Meg good at wax and plaster.

“Of course she's good at wax pills and healing plasters!” Nick had finally thundered at Dr. Caius. “I even helped stir up a big bowl of plaster not long ago, lots of it!”

Now, striding toward home and Bett, Nick nearly jumped out of his skin when a tall figure suddenly appeared at his side. But it was Gil, like he'd just stepped out of the wind.

The lad inclined his head, and they hied themselves into an alley.

Been home, seen Bett
, Gil signaled to him.
She was let go too. Had to go in from roof. Someone watching the street, maybe for me.

“Well, they let me out proper, so I'm going home,” Nick said.

Gil shook his head.
Bett says you go find Dr. Clerewell, and I go tell Cecil, Ned, or Jenks.

That short speech took Gil a long time, as Nick had never learned the signals for people's names. Gil had to mimic Clerewell's big hat, Cecil's beard and his importance, Ned's giving a grand speech, and Jenks's using a sword until Nick picked up on exactly who he meant.

“No more word on the queen's health?” Nick asked.

Gil shook his head and hit his heart with his fist.
That
was clear enough, at least. Nick clasped the boy's shoulder, then set out for the Cheapside doctor's shop where he and Gil had gone for help once before.