"What may that be, Sir?"
"Plague, Merivel. Pestilence. At Deptford four people have died. And it will spread. Some of us will be spared and some will die. But all of us will awake."
"I heard no rumour of plague, Sir."
"No. But then you are at Bidnold. You are asleep in Norfolk. You are dreaming, Merivel!"
I am about to reply that indeed I have been dreaming of former times and wishing them with me again, when the King takes from his pocket a lace handkerchief and proceeds, with some tenderness, to wipe the moisture from my boiling face.
"Now," he says, having cleaned me up, "we must speak about Mistress Clemence, your wife. For this reason I have summoned you, Merivel. From my knowledge of your character – and I hope I am not mistaken in this – I believe you to be, like your father before you, a man who clearly understands and accepts the station to which chance and favour, no less than his own deserving, have brought him and does not diminish himself by lusting after what he cannot have. Much has been given to you, Merivel, has it not?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"And you do not, even indolent as I fear you have become, drive your brain to despair by wishing for more, n'est-ce pas?"
"No…"
"Or do you? Is it a Dukedom you want of me now?"
"No, no. On my honour."
"Good. Look at that toad, by the way, the thing in the bell jar. Will you help me to dissect it later?"
I look to where the King is pointing and I see an awesomely large bull toad, stiffened and bloated by death.
"If you wish me to, Sir," I say.
"Yes, I wish you to. Now, listen well, Robert. When I married Celia to you, it was to hide her, so to speak, from the very intelligent gaze of Lady Castlemaine, the better to find her again myself and sport with her unobserved."
"This I know, my Liege."
"Very well. You may imagine then my dismay, my fury nay, when I hear from the lips of your wife the command to end my liaison with Castlemaine, likewise to terminate my amours with certain actresses from the Playhouse, and keep her as my only woman, outside the bed of my good Queen. Naturally, I did not answer her one single word, for no subject on earth may command me thus. I merely gave instructions that she was to vacate her house at Kew and all her possessions save her dresses and jewellery and ride at once to you, where she must remain until the folly of her importunate conduct burns shame into her skull!"
The King gets up off his stool and begins once again to walk up and down, poking and prying at his chemical compounds. I see his cheek twitching, a tick of nature caused only and always by anger. I remain silent, only nodding. After a moment or two, the King picks up a large pestle and, using this for emphasis, continues thus:
"Yet, alas, Merivel, I miss her! Though I would whip the silly girl the grosser part of me is uncommonly sensible to her absence. What a plight! My reason tells me to abandon her for ever, but this, the Royal tool, is waving about in search of her. And life is brief, Merivel. We should go to pleasure, as to all things, with energy and will, a gift you once had even to excess, if I recall."
"And still would, Sir, if my mind – "
"Then go to this one task with a will for me. Impress upon Celia the folly of her demands. Remind her of my fondness for order and rank and my loathing for those who get above themselves. Teach her to be content with what she has, for what she has is much, and bid her never to hope for more. Tell her then to come to me in humility and she may have it all again, her house, her servants, her money and the King in her bed from time to time."
Disliking my role as messenger, I am about to say to the King that I have had very little in the way of conversation with Celia and fear that her dislike of me may hamper my attempts to pass on his wisdom, when the King grabs my hand and declares: "Enough of that. I leave it in your hands. Now come, Merivel, I shall now pour you a cup of wine and, into the wine, we shall put one or two of my Drops!"
His anger has vanished as swiftly as it came on. He chuckles as he pours and measures. I watch his hands, then his smile, which is so beloved to me. I have a sudden belief that whatever is in this cordial, the King intends me no harm.
I drink down the draught. The King is amused and delighted and slaps his thigh.
"Good!" he says. "Now we shall start work upon the toad."
It would be vain to remind King Charles, I decide, that very many months have passed since I held a scalpel or a cannula in my hands and that, by an act of will, I have consigned my dissecting skills to oblivion. I sense also, that he is eager to anatomise the toad himself, demonstrating to me the deftness of his long fingers, the neatness and care of his work. So I say nothing, as the toad is taken out of the bell jar and laid upon the tray and His Majesty rolls up his sleeves. I merely watch and, as I do so, I find myself unaccountably invaded by an intense happiness, such as I have not known since the far-off days of Rosie Pierpoint, of tennis lessons, of games of Rummy, of the gift of dinner napkins.
The King cuts, flays and pins the whitish skin of the toad's belly.
"The gut," he says as he makes his first incision in the flesh, "has a jewelled sheen to it, as we shall see…"
Careful as he is, the intestines spill out, so that their precise arrangement is lost to us. Across time, the voice of Fabricius snarls in my ear, "Do not tangle with the bowel, Merivel! You are not a Laocoon!"
"Ah!" says the King. "See the colour?"
I am staring at the toad's intestines and I am aware that the soft coils have a silvery patina. But I am a little distracted, for the word "colour" has reminded me suddenly of my attempts at painting and the frenzy of mind that seems to accompany them, and without really intending to, I begin to tell the King of my desire to paint, to capture the essence of people and nature, "before they dissolve or change, you see, Sir, for everything on earth, or so it seems to me, is in a state of perpetual motion, even inanimate objects, for the light upon them changes, or the eye with which we beheld them yesterday is today re-shaping what it sees…"
I babble on. The King does not speak, but works methodically, unhurriedly at his dissection until all – heart and lungs and spleen and windpipe and sperm sacs – is laid out before us. I speak about my painting of my park and Finn's loathing of it. I try to describe the painting but hear myself, as if my voice is no longer mine, as if it belonged to Pearce's worm-filled lunatic, describe instead the feelings that drove me to painting: my terrible fear that the King had abandoned me, no longer loved me or found any need of my company. "I was your Fool," I hear myself wailing, "and however serious may be the business of government, do not tell me that the King has no need of laughter!"
I am crying again. Tears are coursing down my face and onto the toad on the tray, over which, finding myself now tired to my very marrow, my body has slumped.
I see the King's hands put down his instruments. He picks up a cloth and wipes blood and viscera off his fingers. And then I lose him. I do not know what happened except that I hear myself talking on and on, to the King I believe, who is no longer near me but in the shadowy laboratory somewhere, moving up and down as he always does, restless and tall and never still… but he is not there. I am alone in the place. He has gone out into the sunlight and I am lying down in the dark, under the oak work bench. I am getting into my grave.
I am woken by an elderly man, wearing the garb of an apothecary. I am parched. The old man understands this and gives me cool, sweet-tasting water in a beaker.
Food is brought to me. I am seated at a little table. I eat some bread. A liveried servant hands me a letter.
I am in the Physic Garden. The sky above me is bright. I break the seal of my letter.
Poor Merivel, (says the letter) I did not warn you, the King's Drops alchemise secrets into words. And yet you have told me nothing. For every thing you revealed, I saw in your face. Beware, however, that love does not turn into need. And so Godspeed with your mission to Celia. I would have her think upon our displeasure for the duration of two months, after which time, she may, if in humble spirit, return to Kew, where we shall come to her.