The Queene's Cure (9 page)

“So you've tested the cream on yourself, and it's perfect,” she exulted the moment they were alone again.

“But hardly perfected. It needs more trials and not only on me and the few patients I have access to.” He sighed and shook his head. “It isn't easy for a provincial doctor, no matter that Norwich is the realm's second largest city. Here am I, just beginning a London practice where the learned doctors of the Royal College rule and reign.”

“Don't they, though,” she commiserated. “They keep an eagle eye on the apothecaries and herbalists too, I can tell you that.”

“And yet I implore you that I might leave this goodly sample for you to try on whomever might dearly need its benefits. I've noticed that your assistant Bett has a puckered scar on her chin.”

“I could try it on her. But if I'd sell such and it got out, I could be closed down and worse.”

“Not sell, mistress, but use gratis on persons who might need a godsend, like Bett. I've seen how she helps you and how much she loves her son, the queen's mute artist, as you described him. Indeed, perhaps I can work to cure his muteness too.”

“Oh, Dr. Clerewell, we'd all be so grateful.”

“But let's keep that our secret now too, not to get peo-ple's hopes up. And I'd ask only that you—and they— keep quiet about the source of this emollient till we are certain it would work well for others too. I cannot be besieged for it, not now. And if they ask you what is in it, that I cannot tell at this time, to protect my work. Will you help? And do not fret that this is underhanded, for I intend to drop off a second petition for its legal sale to the Royal College of Physicians on my way home.” He lifted his surcoat so she saw a wax-sealed letter stuck in his belt.

His eyes were as warm as his voice and hands. The fact he'd admitted to her that this letter was his second petition to those unfeeling, pompous physicians made
her sympathize the more. Their fingers touched as he slid the box toward her and she nodded.

“You have my word I'll help and keep your secret,” she whispered. “May I know what you call it, then?”

“Venus Moon Emollient. Named for the goddess of beauty and the white-faced moon. And I give it into your care, fit for a goddess.”

Meg blushed, unsure if he'd meant to compliment her or not. She took the box from him almost reverently. For one moment she had thought he was going to say “fit for a queen.”

I
DON'T KNOW ABOUT YOU, BUT I'M ABOUT OUT OF CAKES
, questions, and patience,” Jenks muttered to Ned as the morning wore on in Knightrider Street. They had set themselves up several doors down from the physicians' hall. “No one's seen one damned thing out of the ordinary, and Bess won't like us coming back empty-handed—without information, I mean,” he added, stuffing a piece of broken cake in his mouth.

Ned Topside rolled his eyes and shook his head. He'd never gotten used to how dense Jenks could be with his blunt, naive approach, when Ned was certain using various voices and personae was a better tactic of discovery.

“I'm not surprised,” Ned muttered as they dumped their sacks of crumbs for the ravens that scavenged in the streets. “The crowd only had eyes for Her Grace and,
according to what people have said, the coach was down a bit out of their line of sight. But I think we should suggest to her we return to knock on doors farther down the street, since folks there might have had the coach in their view, especially if they were peering out an upper window.”

“Maybe we should do it now and surprise her.”

“Let's just tell her what we found—or didn't find— and suggest it, and don't forget who came up with it first. Halt there!” Ned called to a man with a large hat as he strode down the street. “Were you in the queen's crowd yesterday?”

The man was tall and stately and seemed in a rush. Ned would have given a fortnight's salary to get his hands on that dramatic, French-looking hat.

“No, as I'm just visiting the doctors. The queen's crowd, you say? What's amiss?”

“Nothing's amiss,” Jenks put in, elbowing Ned.

“You mean,” the man said, looking sideways at them and shifting his big package and the wax-sealed missive he held to his other hand, “you're queen's men?”

Ned was going to give a grandiose answer, but Jenks elbowed him in the ribs again. “If you weren't here yesterday, go on about your business then,” Jenks ordered. “Good day to you.”

As the fellow hurried on and knocked at the front door of the physicians' hall, then stepped inside, Jenks mounted, and Ned followed suit.

“He could easily find out what we were doing here,” Ned grumbled. “It doesn't pay to lie or be secretive in this instance. We've even tipped off the eminent physicians. I noted more than one of them staring out at us when we first came, though I haven't seen a face at a window for a good hour.”

“Probably part of her plan, to rattle them,” Jenks said smugly. “Wait till they see Cecil on their doorstep later, eh?”

As they headed away, their horses nearly knocked down a young, blue-coated apprentice as he ran pell-mell from one of the narrow alleys into the street. “Ho, can you tell me if I'm too late for the queen's kindness then?” he called to them. “My master wouldn't let me go two days in a row, so I sneaked out.”

They reigned in, and Ned leaned an arm on his pommel to bend down to regard the man at closer range. “You saw the queen here yesterday, did you?”

“Aye, first time 'cause he always keeps me working. Pewtersmith's man I am, down on Cheapside next to the Rose and Thorn. Say,” he said, looking up at Jenks, “you were in her procession. You the guard wedded to that cloaked maid in the crowd, the one with sunset hair like Her Majesty's?”

Ned and Jenks exchanged quick glances. “Hair the color of the queen's, you say?” Ned asked.

“Certes, in a cloak and hood. Standing in the alley, she
was. And then run off when I said she looked like the queen.”

“Not just hair hue, but the maid's face too?” Ned prompted.

The lad frowned and scratched his head right through his cap. “Aye, that's the way of it though none's so fair as our fair queen.”

“Well said, man,” Ned said and flipped him a groat. He caught it easily and bit it to be certain it was real. Ned thought that one piece of information just might make up for the wasted saffron cakes they'd passed out to the rabble. This man had given them something to go on, though Jenks might not have caught the import of it.

“That girl in the street could have been Meg,” Jenks blurted out to dash his hopes, “though I suppose other maids have the queen's coloring too. But our old friend would never do a thing to hurt Her Grace. Meg yet loves her dear so there's no motive, as Cecil would say.”

“Of course not,” Ned clipped out and turned away before he rolled his eyes at the man's stupidity. When the apprentice hurried off and Jenks spurred his horse, Ned yelled, “Stay!”

“Me? Stay why?” Jenks challenged, pulling up.

“I believe you should stay behind and knock on a few of those house doors. It was a good suggestion you had— to do it now.”

“
I
should? And what of you then?”

“Her Majesty would certainly trust that task to you
alone, and I am certain you will do a fine job of it. I'll ride a bit down these narrow alleys to see if there is a discarded trunk or large sack in which that effigy might have been carried. I'll meet you back at Whitehall.”

Before Jenks could protest, Ned wheeled away. He'd make short shrift of the alleys all right, because he had a visit to make he didn't want Jenks or the queen to know a thing about.

K
AT ASHLEY, WITH ANNE CAREY AS COMPANION, RODE
toward the vast manors and privy apartments in the enclave called Blackfriars, once a massive monastery. After the dissolution of the Catholic Church's vast holdings in England, the crown had taken over such church property for its own use.

Westminster Abbey, on the far side of Whitehall, had become a Protestant church and a secular college. To the east, prime Thames-side land once boasting the chapel, cloisters, gardens, and dormitories of the black-garbed friars was now the elite environs of important court personages like the Careys. The monks' former supply rooms, infirmary, and sanctuaries also provided extra storage for royal barge trappings, masque and pageant properties, and, as was Tudor tradition, the great royal wardrobe. Though the queen's seasonal gowns and accessories were kept in her palace of current residence,
that was too meager a space for all she was coming to possess.

With their treasures bundled within, daily wardrobe carts trundled back and forth from palace to wardrobe, a brick building off Thames Street which had housed the black friars' sewing and mending shops before the Tudors took it over. Kat felt so tired she'd almost taken one of the carts today, settled down amidst the royal attire. She could have ridden a barge, too, but you might know all of them were out fetching goods or people.

“Are you quite certain you won't mind if I stop round to see my children before we head back to Whitehall?” Anne asked, as she drew her horse up within Blackfriars' once-hallowed precincts. Despite being Lord Hunsdon's wife, Anne didn't know why the Mistress of the Royal Robes was really here. The queen insisted that her Privy Plot Council keep secrets, even from spouses. As far as Kat knew, no one had broken their pledge of honor yet—hopefully not even the disgraced Sarah Wilton, alias Meg Milligrew, who had known her share of them.

“I expected you to see your little ones,” Kat assured Anne. “Go on then, and I'll meet you here at the wardrobe in an hour.” Kat figured it wouldn't take her long to cross-question the guard and give the wardrobe girls a good going over about the missing gown and petticoats.

The old woman dismounted with difficulty, then stomped over and cuffed the dozing guard, slumped on a bench in the sun by the wardrobe door. He lunged to his
feet, cursing until he saw who had smacked him. He swept the door open for her with, “First Lady here unannounced!”

“Next time you'll watch that door proper and help me dismount too!” Kat muttered as she entered the cool, vast building.

“Queen's First Lady of the Wardrobe here!” the guard bellowed a second time, then beat a hasty retreat, closing the door behind him.

Seeing no one down the shadowy rows of suspended garments, Kat nonetheless heard scurrying, as if she'd stirred up a nest of mice in a larder. The mingled scents of lavender, rosewater, and lime curled around her to calm her nerves.

Finally, the two men who drove the delivery cart and the two women who did the mending and scenting fell into a line, dropping ragged curtsies and bows as if she were the queen herself. Though the main laundry, where most things were boiled and bleached, was in the outbuildings of Whitehall, two light-soil laundresses came running, wet to their elbows. She'd forgotten about them. She supposed she should separate this lot and go at them one at a time, but she had not the patience nor strength for that.

Though Kat wasn't expecting her, one of the queen's cobblers, actually a slipper-maker, came running too. Foolish lass, she held a long needle in one hand and could have accidently jabbed herself or any of them. Finally,
the two who embroidered or stitched on jewels and pendants, as well as the haughty old dame who was the royal lace-maker appeared, with her new ruff girl in tow, so it looked as if Kat would get them all in one fell swoop.

“I've been ailing of late,” Kat began, “but I'm back now and my being indisposed is no excuse for your laxness.”

“No, milady,” echoed in various voices down the line.

“I consulted my book, and I want you to fetch a gown the queen hasn't worn for some time but wants to see now,” she went on, setting in place her plan to make them search for that which was not there. “A tawny, branched velvet skirt, matching single sleeves, and boned bodice. The skirts have flowers appliquéd on, made of matched topaz, and—”

“Oh, I know the one,” Melly, who was the brightest of the bunch, piped up. Kat hoped she would not be implicated, because the girl could sew on a gem in any pattern and have nary a thread show. “I spent all night putting those golden daisies on that gown, and went near blind as a bat. I know where it's kept too, back with the golden or canary ones what have sprinkles of jewels.”