The Queene's Cure (8 page)

“No, Kat,” Elizabeth insisted, returning to their task, “that's not this thing you're smelling. The meadowsweet and woodruff 's on the floor, and the hint of lavender's in our pomanders and garments.”

Gil stopped drawing again and gestured to her,
I think
this thing also smells just like you. If Bett was here she could tell you what's inside with one sniff, and you wouldn't even have to cut into it.

“I'm not sending for Bett now,” Elizabeth said. “Go sit over there and work until I call you back.” She let him think he was just getting in her way when she actually did not want anyone but Kat to see her disrobe the effigy. Gil shrugged and shuffled away to perch on the curved, padded bench under the oriel window where the fading outside light was better.

“Now,” Elizabeth whispered to Kat, “let's look all the way up under my stolen skirts.”

The petticoats were hardly as full as her own, but her mocker had not skimped on them, mayhap to keep the tawny brocade gown from dragging if the effigy was stood straight up. Each holding a side of the outer skirt, Kat and the queen lifted it up to cover the figure's head, as if it shouldn't see its own intimate examination.

“That top petticoat's one of yours, I warrant,” Kat judged as she squinted at it.

“How can you tell?”

“If you ever helped dress yourself these days, you'd know. See here,” she said and pointed a gloved hand at a white embroidered circlet near the hem. “
E.R.
, plain as day.”

“There's nothing wrong with your eyes, my Kat,” Elizabeth told her, pleased at the proof and yet even more annoyed at her petticoats being pilfered too.

“It's just I knew where to look,” Kat said as they peeled up the next layer of linen, then one of taffeta, then the next, until they came to the bum roll. The sausageshaped, stuffed bolster was knotted flat across the belly but bulged on the sides and back to push out the skirts. It was much more old-fashioned than the current cagelike farthingales, but bum rolls were still in use.

“We'll have to cut into that, too, but right now let's see the rest of her,” Elizabeth said as she exposed the linen hips and midriff, which looked rather lumpy with their stuffing. But as she got a knife and prepared to cut into a thigh, she hesitated. What if something dangerous was hidden within? Even if it wasn't, she half expected this thing to bleed.

She steeled herself, then touched the knife to the cloth and drove it in, before they both startled at the rapping on the hall door. She'd given orders she was not to be disturbed. But 'S blood, she was disturbed by all of this!

As the queen stayed her dagger, Kat went to the door and said through it, “The queen's resting. Who's there?”

“It's Cecil, Lady Ashley. I shall just step in a moment, then, and leave these important papers for Her Majesty to tend to in the morning.”

Kat glanced at Elizabeth, who nodded and moved to meet him just inside the door rather than have him see the half-denuded form. But when he stepped in and closed the door, he discarded his sheaf of papers on a chair and peered over her shoulder.

“I see,” he said, gesturing at a discarded hawking glove on the floor, “you've thrown down the gauntlet.”

She knew he did not intend a jest. No one smiled or laughed. Everyone stared now at the dagger she held in her gloved hand. Silence hung heavy in the royal rooms.

“I am determined,” she told him, annoyed at herself for blinking back tears, “to ferret out the villain.”

“Or villainess,” he countered, his brow furrowed. “I fear we might have more of those who wish you ill than we want to admit. Your Majesty, I returned not only to see what you have found. I believe we must indeed follow clues to uncover links to someone unknown. But we must also make a list of certain dangerous persons who are your blood kin, those we know would like not only to dismay or harm you, but also—”

“Who would like to take my life and throne,” she finished for him.

THE FOURTH

T
HE MOMENT MEG MILLIGREW UNLOCKED HER SHOP door the next morning, Marcus Clerewell ap peared in the dim dawn.

“Oh, doctor,” she said, cloaking her surprise, “there you are, and so early too. I thought you'd be by for your goods yesterday.”

“Forgive my tardiness, Mistress Sarah.” He shook her hand as he always did. His fingers and palms were warm and soft, especially for a man. Warm hands, warm heart, Kat Ashley used to say, and Meg knew that was true of this kindly man.

“Please, after you,” he said with a sweeping gesture and followed her into the shop. His deep, musical voice was pleasant to her ears, especially after Ben's constant carping. She was glad her husband had not rolled out of bed yet and probably wouldn't till midmorn. Marcus Clerewell was not born or bred a gentleman, but he seemed one, ever polite and charming. And, for a physician, modest and humble. He didn't talk down to her or put on airs. She had to admit the man was her favorite customer and not only for the amount of coin he spent.

“It smells wonderful in here as usual,” he told her. “No doubt from that meadowsweet you put on your floors, which I believe your husband said you used to strew in the royal privy chamber too.”

“Ben brags too much of my days with the queen.”

“I have no doubt you were of great help to Her Majesty and will be again someday when she realizes how much she lacks your good services,” he assured her as she walked around the back of the work counter and he paused before it.

“Your lupin and snakeweed are ready, your precious theriac too,” she told him, gathering the herbs from behind the counter.

“Good old treacle, as the common folk always call it,” he mused. “But not you, mistress. Sarah Wilton, ever on her toes.”

“I'd have to be to keep up with you,” she said, and they shared a little smile. Indeed, she'd have to stand on her
toes in more ways than one, for the man must be nigh six feet tall and carried himself proudly, never stooping or slumping like Ben did.

“I believe what you are endeavoring is noble,” she added as she placed his herbs in a hemp sack that would keep them safe but let them breathe. She was especially heedful of handling the theriac in its horn container with a piece of parchment tied across its mouth. It was concocted of near fifty special ingredients he'd specified.

“Anyone,” she went on, “who is bold enough to work with people scarred by the pox, let alone strive for a cure for them—why, noble is the only way I can think of it.” She flushed as she beamed at him, but from his left side she could not glimpse his expression.

She'd never seen Dr. Marcus Clerewell remove his cocked, big-brimmed, plumed hat, though the breadth of it made him always turn his head to see. At first, she'd thought it strange he didn't wear the brimless, earflapped cap that was the proud sign of a learned doctor. And she'd not understood his always keeping his hat on until she'd glimpsed his face in the slant of window light and had nearly fallen through the floor one day.

Worse than if he were poxed, he had puckered, stretched, and thickly layered reddish skin—like dried mud that carter's wheels had driven through—covering half of his once-handsome face. Scarred skin hung a heavy fold of lid over his left eye. Even his other arched brow, classically chiseled nose, firm mouth, and strong
chin could not save an observer from shock. From his right side, Marcus Clerewell, Norwich doctor come to London but two years ago, looked a princely man, but from the other …

Besides admiring this man, Meg had to admit, she pitied Marcus Clerewell, though she never let on. There but for the grace of God walked all men. Besides, she sensed his disfigurement had inspired him to do great things, and she was thrilled to be a small part of that effort.

“I have a surprise for you, mistress,” he told her. “Steady yourself and gaze upon my scars, for I know you have glimpsed them afore. Then tell me what you think, for I would sue for your assistance, more than you have already bestowed so generously upon me.”

Slowly, he removed his hat and turned his left side to her.

“Oh,” she said, surprised by the pale if slightly swollen smoothness of his skin there. “You—dear heavens— you've cured your scars!”

“Not cured, mistress, but covered and treated in the process,” he said solemnly. “With this.”

She tore her gaze from the miracle of his skin as, from his leather satchel, he produced with a flourish an alabaster box and opened it. A thick, creamy substance lay within.

“You'll make your fortune with pox survivors!” she cried. “If it does that for your scars …”

He held one finger to his lips to quiet her. “My scars are burns, mistress, not pock marks. Its use for that is yet to be proved. Now, one must not rub this in, but carefully layer it on and let it set a bit. Sarah, I never told you how I became so flawed, did I, and I bless your sweet nature for never asking as others always blurt it out.”

“I didn't want to hurt your feelings.”

“You've done quite the opposite. You see, my mother's skirts caught fire from the hearth when I was but four years, sleeping in a trundle near the fireplace to keep warm. 'Tis not uncommon,” he added, and she saw his eyes mist. “I mean, of course, disfigurement or even death from such a cause.”

Meg blinked back a prickle of tears. “True,” she rushed to reassure him. “I've heard and seen such and mixed medicines for accidents like that. You should have told me before. Her skirts caught your bedclothes on fire, didn't they?”

“I was ill, you see, with a fever that made me delirious, and she'd tucked me in tightly. She tried to beat out my flames and so died in agony from her burns, but I …” He cleared his throat. “You can imagine the rest, my suffering as a lad, reared by a father who felt her death and my face were God's just punishment for—for what I know not. A bookish man, a hard man… But I believe your kind heart knows how much I've grieved from taunts and cruelties as I grew up. Pox scars, indeed, folks expect to see, but this stigma is so much worse.”

“Glory to God you're not a bitter man. That you want to help others.”

“Yes, well, I had once only hoped to help burn victims, but there are so many poxed. Don't misunderstand me, Sarah. I know full well there would be financial profit in such a cure. I could expand my library and have a work printed about my belief in the vapor theory of various disease and pestilence. But as to your help …”

He stopped speaking as Meg's second customer came in, Pru Featherstone, a tavern keeper's wife. Dr. Clerewell must have heard or sensed the woman, as he swept his hat back on and whispered, “Please, see to your customer.”

Meg tended to the goodwife's needs, but her eyes and mind kept focused on the doctor. A miracle! A medication that could save hearts and minds if not lives. And he was counting out a pile of coins, more than he owed her, even for the expensive theriac. She couldn't wait until the woman left the shop.