The Queene's Cure (37 page)

“And his father,” the queen prompted.

“Oh, aye, saw him too. More dim-witted than the boy, though the boy's mute. You won't believe this, but the lad's an artist for the queen!”

“Indeed? Say on.”

“He made Dr. Clerewell angry not wanting his cure, biting off his tongue stick, and arguing with his hands,
like he does. Peeked in as well as listened that day, I did. Such an int'resting malady, muteness.”

“Have you seen other doctors here,” Elizabeth went on, “important ones, perhaps to see Dr. Pribble or even Dr. Clerewell?”

“A tall, gaunt one, several weeks ago, came to see my brother but wanted Dr. Clerewell. Chief physician, the visitor was of
Maxima Regina's Collegium
, that's the way he put it.”

“Yes, I heard Dr. Caius came calling. I will see more crowns are yours if you tell me true what else passed between them.”

“Don't know for a certain. My brother sent me for hot ale for the two of them, and that Dr. Caius wouldn't even stay to drink it when I brought it down. On his way out the door, but heading for Dr. Clerewell's place, I warrant, since my brother shouted out to him which way was Gutter Lane.

“Now,” Millicent Mabry went on, “if that fancy Dr. Caius would have asked
me
—like you're doing, mi-lady—where else to look for Dr. Clerewell, I could have told him. Overheard him say once to a patient scarred near as bad as he was—till he got his face mostly cured, that is—that he'd take her to his doctor friend in Chelsea, to a sort of hospital to cure her.”

“To Chelsea?” Elizabeth cried. “Chelsea,
not
Cheapside?”

“Why,” she said, drawing herself up to her full, short
height, “guess I know Chelsea from Cheapside, milady. I'm no fool.”

“Indeed you are not. And this doctor friend of Clerewell's in Chelsea was named Dr. Pascal, was it not?”

“If he said that, didn't hear it. But I know Dr. Clerewell was interested in curing scars on faces, like on his own. Is that why you're searching for him, then? I mean, with your veil and all …”

“Partly, yes,” Elizabeth said, pressing three more crowns from her hanging purse into the old woman's hands. “I tell you, Millicent Mabry, if there were women doctors, your sharp mind and keen observational skills would have made you a fine one. I warrant your queen would have made you the first female fellow in that vaunted
Collegium
of Royal Physicians,” she added as she turned away. Her entourage materialized around and behind her as she headed at a breakneck stride toward the Thames.

“What did she say and where to now?” Ned asked.

Elizabeth stopped to face them. “Anne, you must go back with one of your guards and wait for your lord to come to Cheapside and then follow us to Chelsea—Peter Pascal's house. It will be dusk soon, so there is no time to return to Blackfriars for the barge or extra guards.”

“But—you mean you're going to Chelsea now, Your Grace?” Anne asked, her face and voice alarmed. “Without even one lady with you?”

“Dear Anne, I have been in worse scrapes before. I have men I trust, and none know who I am. Besides, the last time I went calling on Peter Pascal, I did so openly and that was a mistake. I have been surprised for the last time in this, and now it is their turn.”

THE SIXTEENTH

T
HE CREAK OF BARGEMEN'S OARS AND THE JERKING
thrust of prow did not lull the queen but unnerved her. Elizabeth had once said that all roads in this effigy plot led to little Chelsea. Now that she thought of this treasonous attempt on her life and danger to her people as the pox plot, clues still led there. Wishing she had some herb or potion to buck herself up, she tried to stir up her courage.
“I sought the Lord and He heard me,”
she recited repeatedly,
“and delivered me from all my fears.”
But she still shook like a reed in the wind.

Though surrounded by armed men, she did not feel
safe. When dealing with unscrupulous doctors, the fear of something invisible, some creeping blight or plague, haunted her. The little hamlet of Chelsea was Peter Pascal's realm. Yet Dr. Caius was the president of the Royal College, and his accusatory interrogation of Meg and of Gil's family—as well as his being seen looking for Dr. Clerewell—made him seem the guiltier party. Unless they were all in league.

“What will we do when we arrive?” Ned's voice broke into her agonizing.

Because she could not bear to admit she was acting as much on instinct as intellect, Elizabeth told him and the other five men, “Ned, you will go into the tavern where Jenks asked questions on our other visit. You will inquire if a Dr. John Caius is known in the village. Describe him, if you must. And I warrant they will tell you that he has been a frequent visitor to Pascal's home and is there now. And then you must describe Dr. Clerewell, both of his faces.…”

Her voice snagged, and her fingers tightened on the hem of her veil she held down so it wouldn't flap in the river breeze. If only Dr. Clerewell, whom Meg had trusted, was someone who had truly found a cure for pox scars, if not the pox itself. As he spoke briefly in the aisle of the Abbey, the man's voice had been so compelling and caring, and yet the poor girl with him …

“That's it!” the queen cried, smacking her fists on her knees.

“What's it?” Jenks asked.

“In the Abbey aisle, Dr. Clerewell, alias Mercury Blackwell, passed a sachet before that ill girl's nose, not to keep her conscious or soothe her but to force her to sneeze on me. Whether he acted on his own or under Dr. Caius's aegis, his actions intentionally threatened my life!”

The rooftops and skeletal trees of Chelsea loomed at them, lit by the crimson sinking sun. “Someone give me a dagger,” the queen ordered. “And keep your sword arms free.”

P
AYING THE BARGEMEN WELL—SHE HAD SEARCHED
each face to be certain Ben Wilton was not among them—the queen ordered them to wait here no matter who else tried to buy their services. “And if another London barge arrives,” she told them, “inquire if it is Lord Hunsdon and his entourage, and tell them we are probably going to be at Pascal's looking for him and his cohorts.”

“We could make our Chelsea headquarters in the old wig-maker's place,” Ned suggested as they left the barge landing, “especially since it's getting dark.”

“It's a secondary site we may have to search again,” she admitted as the lights of the tavern came into view across the familiar green. “But the darkness is on our side.”

They waited anxiously while Ned went into the tavern.
As she paced, Elizabeth kicked through piles of autumn leaves on the fringe of the green. Finally, Ned came out and broke into a run toward them.

“Pascal's here but he's not the only doctor oft in Chelsea,” he told them, out of breath.

“Clerewell or Caius?” Elizabeth demanded.

“They never heard of a Clerewell or Blackwell. But, as you surmised, they say Caius has oft visited Pascal here.”

“I'll warrant he's here now, and we'll take them in one fell swoop!” she cried.

“But something else I picked up in passing,” Ned said as they started toward Pascal's. “Pascal oft comes and goes not from the old water stairs by his house nor the public landing, but from Sir Thomas More's old boathouse on the far edge of his grounds. It's a place he's been enlarging and refurbishing for years with workers from the city—no local help.”

The queen's head jerked up. “The boathouse was Thomas More's, and Pascal's been changing it? But he won't allow anything his beloved mentor touched to be one whit changed. Jenks, when you searched Pascal's stables, did you see such a building?”

“In the distance, but it didn't look like much. You told me to hurry, so I didn't have time to get close. I was thinking later, though, more horses might be there, 'cause I heard distant whinnying from the old place.”

Her heart pounding, Elizabeth knew her next move.
“Lord Hunsdon and Anne should be here soon, so I'm sending one of you men of his household—you,” she said, indicating the shortest and thinnest of the lot, “to return to wait with our barge to bring Lord Hunsdon to us when they arrive. The rest of us, Ned, Jenks, Clifford, and you two from my Lord Hunsdon's household, will come with me.”

“To where, Your Grace—I mean, milady?” Jenks asked as he scraped his sword out.

“Ned, take one of Lord Hunsdon's men and keep an eye on Pascal's house. With Jenks, Clifford, and Lord Hunsdon's other man,” she indicated the brawnier of the two guards, “I shall take a distant look at this boathouse, then join you.”

A
S ELIZABETH AND HER THREE GUARDS WADED THROUGH
rustling, knee-deep autumn leaves to skirt Pascal's property, her thoughts turned to Gil again. She had come to care deeply for the boy, as if he were a foster son. Gil had God's blessing with his raw, artistic talent. He had both a restless and a reckless streak in him she saw in herself, though she had learned to bridle her deepest desires. Even his muteness had served her well, for, like Cecil, Gil kept her secrets. If anything had happened to him—