‘A child has blood flowing through its veins, just as the mother has. So if drawing blood is medically sound, why not bleed the child – other than to save it from the discomfort? That is where reason would lead us, is it not?’
He waits until he sees a flicker of self-doubt in her grey eyes.
‘I’m not trying to trick you, madam. The answer is simple: because it doesn’t work. I believe any effect is purely coincidental. I can tell you from my experiences in Holland, as a physician to the army of the House of Orange, that blood is best kept where it is – inside.’
Elizabeth Cecil seems intrigued now, almost enjoying a frisson of sedition. She turns to her husband. ‘Robert, explain yourself: how is it that a man who spends his waking hours seeking out heretics invites one into his house – to administer to his son?’
‘Madam, are you going to let Dr Shelby examine William or not?’
With a sudden obedience that surprises him, Lady Cecil sits the child on the nearest cushion, holding him gently by the arm. But there is nothing obedient in the look she gives Nicholas. ‘Have a care with my son, Dr Shelby. He is not the child of some Southwark goodwife – he is a Cecil’s heir. His grandfather is the queen’s best-loved servant. Harm him’ – a glance in her husband’s direction – ‘and not even her newest privy councillor will save you from me.’
‘Look under his arms,’ says Robert Cecil in reply, softly, as though he hopes no one else in the room will hear. ‘Give me an honest report of what you see.’
Now Nicholas understands. Cecil fears his son might have contracted the pestilence.
Kneeling before the boy, Nicholas gives him what he hopes will be taken as a carefree smile. ‘Tell me now, Master William, does your mother play Tickle with you?’ He flutters his fingers. The boy grins. Nicholas looks up at Lady Cecil. ‘Madam, will you assist me?’
Understanding him at once, she makes a fuss of the boy, pretending to pinch him on the side. He squirms away from his mother’s fingers, laughing loudly and throwing up both arms in delight. Cecil looks on intently. If he objects to the frivolity, he keeps it to himself.
Nicholas gently holds the boy’s arms aloft and studies the red patches that are clearly visible in the armpits. He knows at once what he’s looking at.
He remembers that when he had his practice on Bread Street – before Eleanor’s death; before the fall – his richer clients had taken a too-speedy diagnosis as a sign of sloppiness. They had wanted their money’s worth. But he can sense Robert and Elizabeth Cecil’s anxiety. There is no point in prolonging it. He stands up, finding himself stifling an unexpected yawn as the hour catches up with him.
‘An irritation of the skin, Sir Robert, Lady Cecil. Nothing more. These are not buboes.’
‘Thank our merciful Lord!’ Robert Cecil’s explosive release of breath is the first display of emotion Nicholas has witnessed since his arrival.
‘But there is more,’ says Elizabeth Cecil, restoring the child to her lap, where he starts toying with the edge of the cushion. ‘His sleep has also been much disturbed of late. He spits out his milk-sop. He mewls a great deal. And my ladies tell me he has a fever.’
To Nicholas’s ear, she sounds as if she’s testing him. He lays a hand on the boy’s forehead. It feels hot to the touch. He calls for a candle to be brought nearer, the better to see inside the child’s mouth. ‘You said he spits out his milk-sop. Does he swallow water with ease?’
Elizabeth Cecil looks at one of the ladies, who shakes her head.
‘Inflammation of the columellae,’ Nicholas says. ‘If you look, madam, you’ll see: there at the back of the throat.’
‘What do you prescribe?’ she asks.
‘If you wish a strictly non-heretical regime,’ he says, giving in to sarcasm and instantly regretting it, ‘I’d suggest a purge to empty his bowels, and wet-cupping to draw blood from the skin. Possibly a small incision made under the tongue to take out the over-hot blood. That’s what the textbooks would have me do.’
She smiles. ‘Perhaps I was a little too hasty earlier, Dr Shelby. But a mother is entitled to be protective, is she not?’
‘Of course, madam.’
‘So?’
‘For the soreness under his arms, a balm of milk-thistle and camomile. For the throat: a decoction of cypress leaves, rose petals, garlic and pomegranate buds, all in honey.’
Robert Cecil coughs, as if to remind them of his presence. ‘I’ll send a man to the apothecary on Spur Alley.’
‘Husband, it is not even dawn–’
‘What of it?’
‘May I make a suggestion, Sir Robert?’
‘Yes, of course, Dr Shelby.’
‘Let me have Mistress Merton make up the physic for you. I’d trust her ingredients over anything a member of the Grocers’ Guild puts in a pot. Half of it’s likely to be dried grass and crushed hazelnuts.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve run afoul of the grocers as well, Dr Shelby,’ Robert Cecil says. ‘After the College of Physicians, the Barber-Surgeons, and the Worshipful Company of Tailors, is there any guild in London you haven’t upset?’
‘The vintners speak highly of me,’ says Nicholas in a flat voice devoid of frivolity.
‘Perhaps I’ve been mistaken in my opinion of you, Dr Shelby,’ says Elizabeth Cecil with a wry smile. ‘I ought to know by now that a pearl is not to be judged by its shell.’
The clear reference to her husband catches Nicholas off-guard. He has always assumed Lord Cobham’s daughter married the crook-backed Robert Cecil solely for the name. Until now, it had never dawned on him that love played any part in Cecil’s life.
As they walk back to Sir Robert’s study, Nicholas says, ‘When your men hammered on the door of my lodgings, I feared it was the parish, come to tell me that plague had crossed the river.’
Robert Cecil glances up at him pensively. ‘At present it seems confined mostly to the lanes around the Fleet bridge. One of Elizabeth’s ladies has family there. So naturally I assumed the worst. Let us hope to God it can be kept in check.’
‘The Lord Mayor has done the right thing, Sir Robert. As long as everyone keeps their dwelling clean and the street outside free of refuse–’
‘And what would be your heretical view of the cause of this contagion, Dr Shelby?’
A weary smile. ‘I know no better than any other physician, Sir Robert.’
‘Men who don’t think with the herd are often wiser than they know, Dr Shelby. Speculate.’
‘I know that casting horoscopes and wrapping yourself in ribbons inscribed with prayers has no discernible – and, more importantly, repeatable – effect, if that’s what you mean.’
‘But its transmission: have you no views of your own?’
‘It is held to move easily in tainted air, but how, and from where, I cannot say. Nor can I tell you why some who catch it die, while others live. That may have to do with age and constitution, but it is by no means certain. The disease is a mystery – an exceptionally malign mystery.’
‘Well, the Privy Council has done what it can. The infected houses are to be shut up and a watch set over them. We’ve forbidden all fairs and gatherings within the city. The rest is up to God.’
‘Then let us hope it dies of starvation, Sir Robert.’
‘Amen to that. At present there’s no talk of adjourning the Trinity term for Parliament. But if Her Majesty starts thinking of removing herself to Windsor or Greenwich, there will be a great leaving of this city, mark my words.’
Back in Cecil’s study, Nicholas reaches for the gabardine he’d left hanging on a chair. Through the window, a faint grey line marks the boundary between the fields of Covent Garden and the still-black sky.