Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham
John Knight, the King’s Surgeon General
Clarendon House
Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, the former Lord Chancellor of England
George Milcote, a gentleman of his household
Matthew Gorse, a servant
Others
Olivia, Lady Quincy, formerly Mistress Alderley
Stephen, her footboy
Mr Turner, a lawyer, of Barnard’s Inn
Mr Veal, of London
Roger, his servant
Rev Dr Burbrough, of Cambridge
Rev Richard Warley, of Cambridge
Mistress Warley, his grandmother
Frances, a child
Mr Mangot, of Woor Green
Israel Halmore, a refugee
HE COULD NOT help himself. In one fluid movement, he stepped back, twisting to present his side to the enemy. His right leg was slightly bent at the knee, the foot pointing towards danger. In that instant, he was perfectly poised, as his fencing master had taught him, ready to thrust in tierce, ready to spit the devil before him like a fowl for the roasting.
As he moved, he heard a sharp intake of breath, not his own. His right foot was on solid ground. But the left (‘at right angles to the body, monsieur, for stability and strength’) was floating in the air.
‘God’s—’
In that same instant, he stared at the figure in front of him. Dusk was pouring through the grimy windows of the basement like a noxious vapour. He wanted to beg for help. No words came.
He flung out his arms in front of him in a violent attempt to restore his balance. His fingers stretched, groping for a hand to pull him back. Steel clattered on stone.
He fell with no more choice in the matter than a poleaxed ox. His head slammed against the coping. Pain dazzled him. He cried out. His arms and legs flailed as he fell. The damp, unyielding masonry grazed his fingers.
Nothing to hold. Nothing to—
His shoulder jarred against stone. The water hit him. The wintry chill cancelled all pain and drove the breath from his body. He opened his mouth to cry out, to breathe. The cold flooded his lungs. He choked.
Fiery agonies stabbed his chest. He sank. He had always feared water, had never learned to swim. His hands scraped against unyielding stone. His boots filled, dragging his legs down.
His head broke free. He gulped a mouthful of air. Far above him, he glimpsed the shadowy outline of a head and shoulders.
‘Help me,’ he cried. ‘For the—’
But the words drowned as his body sank again and the water sealed him into its embrace. The purest in London, that’s what her ladyship claimed. His fingernails scrabbled against the stone, trying to prise out the mortar to find handholds. His limbs were leaden. The pain in his chest grew worse and worse. It was impossible that such agony could exist.
Despair paralysed him. Here was an eternity of suffering. Here at last was hell.
The pain retreated. He was no longer cold, but pleasantly warm. Slowly, it seemed, every sensation vanished, leaving behind only a blessed sense of peace.
So this, he thought, this is—
One Day Earlier
ON FRIDAY, I was watching the King healing the sick in the Banqueting House at Whitehall.
‘Don’t look round,’ Lady Quincy said softly.
At the sound of her voice, something twisted in my chest. I had met her last year, in the aftermath of the Great Fire, during an episode of my life I preferred not to dwell on, which had left her a widow. She was a few years older than me, and there was something about her that drew my eyes towards her. Before I could stop myself, I turned my head. She was staring at her gloved hands. Her hat had a wide brim and a veil concealed her face. She was standing beside me. She had brought someone with her, but I could not get a clear view. Someone small, though. A child? A dwarf?
‘Pretend it’s the ceremony that interests you,’ she murmured. ‘Not me. Or I shall have to go.’
We were on the balcony, and the entire sweep of the hall was laid out before us. My eyes went back to the King. In this place, the largest and by far the grandest apartment in the palace of Whitehall, Charles II was seated on his throne below a canopy of state, with the royal arms above, flanked by crowds of courtiers and surpliced clergymen, including his personal confessor, the Clerk of the Closet. His face was calm and very serious. I wondered whether he could ever forget that his father had once stepped through the tall window halfway down the hall on to the scaffold outside, where a masked executioner had been waiting for him with his axe. As a child, I had been in the crowd that had watched as the old king’s head was struck from his body.
‘Say nothing,’ Lady Quincy said. ‘Listen.’
The Yeomen of the Guard marshalled the crowds in the body of the hall, their scarlet uniforms bright among the duller colours worn by most of the sufferers and their attendants. Many of the courtiers held handkerchiefs to their noses, because ill people did not smell agreeable.
‘I’ve a warning,’ she went on. ‘Not for you. For someone we shan’t name.’
I watched the sick. Most of them had visible swellings, great goitres that bulged from their necks or distorted their features. They suffered from scrofula, the disease which blighted so many lives, and which was popularly known as the King’s Evil, because the King’s healing hands had the power to cure it. There were at least two hundred sufferers in the hall below.
‘I had a visitor on Wednesday.’ Lady Quincy’s voice was even softer than before. The hairs lifted on the back
