"There was nothing in the books about this! Nothing! And I read them all!"
"Please, Your Majesty. We must deal with the matter using our reason. You cann-" He broke off, for a second or two, almost grinding his teeth. "The history in those books presupposed the events in those books. Change one-and others change also. As I was saying, it is not possible to bring thousands of mercenary soldiers from the Continent without the risk of disease coming with them."
The queen interjected her own comments. As usual, casting confusion onto muddle. "There was no mention of a plague in the books! None! Not this year! I read them also!"
"Of course not, Your Majesty. There was no sudden flood of mercenaries into the island in those books either. Coming from a continent awash in epidemics."
Henrietta Maria glared at him. Nothing odd in that, of course. The queen of England disliked the earl of Strafford at the best of times. For the past week, since he'd refused to give another of her favorite courtiers a military post-as if the soldiers didn't have enough grief on their hands as it was, trying to contain the unrest swirling throughout the island-the dislike had become open hostility.
"Nothing in the books!" she repeated. "I read them all!"
Strafford realized it was pointless. Best to move on to practical things.
But the king forestalled him there also. "The queen and I will leave London immediately. On the morrow. The city will be a pesthouse within days. We'll winter over in Oxford."
"Your Majesty, I beg you to reconsider. England is still in something of a turmoil. Unrest everywhere. In London, I can guarantee your safety. The new troops have been concentrated here-"
"Exactly why there's a plague!" shrilled the queen. "What were you thinking?"
It was all Strafford could do not to lose his temper completely. What was I thinking, you mindless idiot? I was thinking that every rebellion in England stands or falls on London, in the end. Didn't you read that also, in those books? Lose London, and soon enough-surely as sunrise-you will lose it all.
Again, there was no point. He tried to plow on. "The Trained Bands have been dispersed. They no longer even dare to come into the streets. In Oxford… I cannot be certain what might happen. Besides, there are many who have welcomed the new turn of things, even here in London. If Your Majesties remain, that will signal confidence. With proper procedures-"
A sudden thought came to him. He tried to pursue it, but the king's petulance drove everything under.
"Not possible! My subjects should have confidence in me because I am king, not because of where I choose to reside or what I choose to do. To claim otherwise borders on treason. The dynasty is what matters, Wentworth. Our very lives are at stake. We leave tomorrow-and that is final."
The earl bowed his head. "Sire."
"Not you, of course," snapped the king. There was more than a trace of spiteful glee in the words. "You will remain in London. Your family also. Since you seem so concerned with providing the people with confidence." He waved his hand. "Now be off, about your business. The queen and I have much to do, thanks to your negligence."
By the time Strafford reached his home, his rage had passed, if not his bitterness. He was able to think clearly again.
So be it. I can hardly complain, after all, since it was what I was going to propose to the king himself.
His wife Elizabeth greeted him in the hallway. Nan's hand was held in hers.
Strafford allowed himself a moment simply for affection, such as his stiff manner could manage. Then, stiffly, gave instructions to his wife.
"Pack up whatever you can. I am moving all of you into the Tower. I'll remain here, but I want you safe. As safe as London can be, at least."
"The Tower?" Elizabeth's face was creased with confusion.
"Trust me, wife. If there's any place in London that will weather this new storm, it will be the Tower."
"Will he be all right?" Andrew asked anxiously. His eyes were fixed on the two-year-old child Rita Simpson had just finished examining. Not far away, leaning against a wall in the cramped quarters of a Yeoman Warder, Andrew's wife was standing, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her face was pale, perhaps, but composed. If little George died, he would join one of his siblings in the Tower's graveyard. She still had two others, who seemed healthy. One of them was already seven, and the other five. The odds for them were good now.
"I think so, Andrew," Rita replied. Then, sternly: "If you follow my instructions. But for the sake of God-and little George-don't let them bleed him."
She studied the infant for a moment, her lips pursed. "I don't know exactly what he's got, but I'm sure it's neither plague nor typhus. Could be… oh, lots of things. But the deal is, Andrew, even if I can't cure the disease itself, I can probably treat the symptoms. And with most diseases, it's usually the symptoms that kill off the kids so quickly."
"Oh, yes, Lady Stearns. We'll follow you in this. Don't much trust the doctors meself."
"I'm not 'Lady Stearns,' " she snapped. "Dammit, I'm tired of hearing that silly phrase. The name's Rita Simpson. Mrs. Simpson, if you want to go all formal about it. My mother-in-law's the lady in the family. Ask her yourself, if you don't believe me."
Andrew did not argue the point. But, seeing the set expression on his face, Rita realized that she'd not moved him in the least. Indeed, had just finished confirming him in his opinion.
"Dehydration's the big killer. What the kid needs is plenty of fluids. Water, basically, with electrolytes. Salt'll do, but I'll see if we can scrounge up some sugar also. I'll set up a regimen for you, and I'll check in every day. Okay?"
"Yes, La-ah, Mrs. Simpson."
Rita didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Somehow, Andrew managed to make the term "Missus" sound like "Duchess."
"Guess they've decided to just look the other way," Darryl announced, as soon as he heard the bar drop across the door. "Gave me no argument at all."
He walked over and squatted next to the prisoner. "Melissa says it's because the Warders have heard enough to know you're apparently some sort of demon. I think they've already come to that conclusion about us too. But since we seem like friendly enough demons-or at least calm, cool and collected like you-they've just quietly decided it's best not to rile us any. Demons remember shit. And, who knows? If they ever get loose…"
Quickly, he swapped the batteries. Then, drew a photograph out of his pocket.
"It took me a while to finagle it out of her, but this is what she looks like. Why the hell she bothered to hang on to a driver's license in the first place…"
He shook his head at the folly of women, and handed over the little card. Then, as the prisoner began studying the small picture filling one portion of it, Darryl shifted uncomfortably.
"Look, it's a shitty picture of her. Those damn things always are. I think they must have some kinda exotic high-tech camera designed especially to make everybody look as bad as possible. Mine looked like Jesse James with a hangover."
He wasn't sure the prisoner even heard him. "I'm telling you-trust me-she's really not bad looking."
He was cramping the truth here, at least as far as Darryl was concerned. Stocky women in their thirties with plain faces and mouse-brown hair-okay, yeah, pretty damn good figure; especially the jugs-just weren't to his taste. In general, Darryl's tastes ran toward young women with blond hair, slim figures, and long legs. In particular, especially lately, toward a certain young woman in the Tower with-what else?-blond hair, a slim figure, and legs he couldn't see but was starting to have lots of fantasies about.