It’s how he assumes the comely wives of eminent courtiers expect to be greeted.
‘A physician and a gallant,’ says Lizzy Lumley, turning to her ladies and clapping her gloved hands in delight. ‘So much more pleasing in manner than gruff Sir Fulke. If I am taken poorly, do you think he might read me poetry while he prescribes the physic?’
A spasm of delighted twittering from the ladies.
Nicholas blushes. He’s utterly out of his depth. ‘I fear you would soon find me tiresome, Lady Lumley. I read poetry as romantically as I order firewood,’ he says.
‘I can’t believe that, Dr Shelby.’
‘Oh yes – without question. My wife tells me so.’
My wife tells me so.
The words slip out so easily. Yet each one is like a stitch torn unexpectedly from a still-raw wound.
‘Mercy, whatever is the matter, Dr Shelby?’ Lizzy asks, noticing the pain in his eyes.
‘It is nothing, madam. Nothing of consequence.’
Nothing of consequence.
It is everything. It is everything and then everything again. He fights to regain his composure, knowing that if she were to press him, he’d have to tell her about Eleanor. And once that secret’s given up, who knows what others will follow?
‘Then in the absence of consequence, will you walk with us, Dr Shelby?’
His instinct is to make some excuse; courtly talk eludes him at the best of times. But he fears he’ll simply appear rude. ‘Gladly, madam, though I fear the profit of it will be mine alone,’ he replies.
This seems a suitable answer, for Lady Lumley’s women fall back with a swirl of their gowns to take up station a few paces behind.
‘It is good to see my husband enjoying his conversations again,’ Lizzy says conspiratorially as they set off along the path. ‘He thrives on the views of the younger fellows. Sir Fulke drives him almost to madness.’
‘There are physicians I used to sup with who would dare to say Lord Lumley is not alone in that regard.’
Lady Lumley grins engagingly. ‘To share a confidence with you, Dr Shelby, it will be a relief not to see him at Nonsuch for a while. Especially after that dreadful business with Betony.’
The name means nothing to Nicholas. ‘You have me at a loss, madam. Betony?’
‘Our silent talisman. Our mute kitchen maid.’
‘Oh, the girl you gave a gift to on your return from London.’
‘Mercy, were you spying on us, Dr Shelby?’ Lizzy asks with a smile.
‘No!’ says Nicholas, just a little too vehemently. ‘I just happened to notice – that’s all. Lord Lumley told me about her over supper one night.’
‘Indeed – that was our Betony. The more impressionable servants believe her silence to be saintly, Dr Shelby. Though why she will not speak is a mystery that no one in Nonsuch has been able to explain – not even my very learned and sometimes infuriatingly inquisitive husband.’
‘Has she suffered this malady long?’
‘Who can tell, Dr Shelby? My husband only found her this last St Wulfstan’s Day – hiding in Cheam churchyard. She came to us a vagabond. What her real name is, only Our Lord in heaven knows.’
How long does Nicholas make small talk with Lizzy Lumley after that?
He himself will never be certain. At the time it felt like hours, though it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Certainly no longer than it took to walk to the pretty grove of Diana with its mossy statue of the huntress, then back again to the privy garden.
His overriding memories are of the rattling clamour of his thoughts – and of Alice Welford’s voice coming out of nowhere: They was always inseparable… That’s what she’d do – find a haven… Elise wouldn’t let nothing this side of Satan’s front door stop her.
35
Nicholas enters Master Sprint’s cavernous realm of heat and noise with Alice Welford’s words still ringing in his ears. He’s here because Elizabeth Lumley says if anyone has come close to ending Betony’s silence, it is the Nonsuch head cook. At once he’s assailed by shooting flames, acrid smoke and spitting fat. The air is rent by the hammering of cleavers and the quivering thwack of knife blade against bone and muscle.
Along one wall he can see four huge brick fireplaces. In one of them a carcass of venison roasts slowly on a spit-iron, turned by two kitchen-hands stripped to the waist and sweating in the fierce heat. At a long table women sieve flour through cloths stretched tight over wooden frames, while the younger scullions variously pluck, trim, pare and generally clean up the mess.
‘You should see it when the queen comes to Nonsuch,’ Sprint replies when Nicholas asks him how he can stand it hour after hour. ‘It gets so hot then that Satan himself would cut off his own pizzle for a cold bath.’
‘Lady Lumley suggested I speak to you – about Betony. She says you know more about the maid than anyone.’
‘Aye, and that’s little enough, Master Physician. Joanna and I have coaxed all we can.’ As he shakes his head the folds of his neck appear to rotate the other way. ‘Our reward? Not a single word. All we can do is guess.’
‘And what’s your guess, Master Sprint?’
‘I can tell you one thing – that child wasn’t born to live in empty echoes.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think she could speak, if she desired it. I think she’s frightened to.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Out with Joanna, cleaning the hen coops. I can call her, if you like.’
‘In a while. I thought I’d speak to you first; you seem to have taken her under your wing.’
Sprint smooths his apron self-consciously. ‘My belly might not suggest it, Dr Shelby, but I had a hard start in life too – much like Betony, I suspect. I’m told the parish found me under my mother’s corpse in a ditch. Lord Lumley made me a scullion’s help in the kitchen. I’d be white bones, if not for him. He’s a good Christian man. He who says nay is welcome to debate the issue with me.’
‘I’m sure he is. Were you there when the child was found?’
‘No, sir, I was not. But I must tell you plainly, when she came into the household I wondered what manner of creature she might be.’
‘Why say you so, Master Sprint?’
‘I’m a God-fearing man, Dr Shelby. I do not fear Him because the queen or the Privy Council tell me I must; I fear Him because He knows when we seek to hide our hearts from Him. So in truth, when Betony first came here, I wondered if He hadn’t sent her to test my faith.’
‘That’s quite an accusation to make of a maid,’ Nicholas says, trying not to smile at Sprint’s superstitious confession.
‘A few days after she arrived, I discovered some marks by the bread ovens,’ Sprint tells him, casting a glance towards where two kitchen women are kneading manchet dough, slamming the white slabs against the table with their broad, floury fists. ‘No one here would have dared do it. Betony must have made them when Joanna left her alone for a while.’
‘Marks? What sort of marks?’
‘Satanic images, Dr Shelby. Crosses – turned on their heads. Scratched with her fingernails, I reckon.’
Suddenly from the hearth comes the rattle of hot fat spilt on even hotter iron. A wave of heat sears the side of Nicholas’s face. At once Alice Welford’s voice jumps clear from the clamour in his head: One of Mary’s customers at the Cardinal’s Hat managed to set fire to the mattress Elise was sleeping on, burned her on the face…
‘Tell me something, Master Sprint,’ he says, trying to keep the rising surge of hope from his voice. ‘Betony was wearing an adult’s bonnet when Lady Lumley returned from London. I couldn’t see her that well. Does she have a scar of any kind on her face?’