Merivel A Man of His Time (40 page)

I strode out once again into the cold, bright day.

Stopping at a Poulterer’s Shoppe, I bought a fat Capon and saw it plucked and dressed, then walked to a Dairy and purchased a jar of cream.

I arrived at Rosie Pierpoint’s Laundry on the Bridge just as the midday bells were striking, and found her hard at work on her Ironing, with her girls, Mabel and Marie, scraping and sudsing on their Washboards. The stench of Lye was very strong and the room was billowing in steam.

I went to Rosie and kissed her mouth, and the girls stopped their work and applauded. I put the Capon and the Cream into Rosie’s hands and said: ‘Here is your dinner, Mrs Pierpoint, to share with the girls, and the bird is a fat one and good. So build up the fire of your oven for the roasting, then light a fire in your heart and take me to bed.’

She did not protest. She laid aside a half-ironed lace shirt and gave commands for the roasting of the Capon to Marie, then led me to her Bedroom above. I heard the girls tittering as we mounted the stairs.

Rosie let me undress her slowly, revelling as I did so in the familiar roundness of her body, her breasts very full and her belly a little fat, but then she whispered to me: ‘Sir Rob, I heard a rumour that the King is dying. Tell me it is not so.’

‘It is not so,’ said I. ‘He has been ill, but he is recovering.’

‘Are you sure he is recovering?’

‘No. I am sure about nothing in the world except that my Cock is
so
hard it pains me. Feel here. Your poor Sir Rob is all tangled in Momentous Times and grown uncomfortably momentous. Take pity on me, won’t you, and go to it fast, for I cannot wait.’

Later, spent and comfortable again, I began to kiss Rosie very tenderly, as I might have kissed a wife who was dear to me. The knowledge that the rest of my life would be spent in Neuchâtel and that beyond the summer I might never come here to her again made me feel afraid.

33

THE FOLLOWING MORNING
I went again to His Majesty’s apartments, hoping to find calm there and to hear that he had passed a restful night, but all was panic and anxiety, with the Doctors trying ever more numerous remedies and the Duke of York flailing about him, giving orders for a Cordon of Guards to be placed around Whitehall and – fearing, perhaps, that some Revolution might be planned by the Duke of Monmouth or by the Prince of Orange – signing Papers setting in hand the closure of the nation’s Ports to all who desired to come in or go out.

From this I understood that the News on the King’s condition was very bad.

Lord Bruce confirmed to me that His Majesty had undergone another Fit at seven o’clock, and had since recovered Consciousness but could not speak.

It was difficult to approach the Royal bed for the press of Doctors round it, but most of them knew me and knew my profession, and doubted not my loyalty, so at length I was able to come near the King.

A most terrible scene then unfolded. James Pearse, the King’s Surgeon in Ordinary, had decided that blood should be let from His Majesty’s Jugular Vein. Now, holding up his sharpened Scalpel in readiness, he was attempting, with his left hand, to
find
the Jugular by pressing and pushing and squeezing the King’s neck this way and that, and seeming not to note that his patient was being slowly strangled, with his eyes beginning to burst out of his skull.

‘I cannot find it!’ Pearse cried out irritably, pressing and prodding yet harder. ‘There is no vein!’

The other Doctors, working with Cantharides and Plasters, and laying Leeches into the Sore on the King’s leg and administering, yet again, the Enema tubes, stared helplessly at the Surgeon.

‘God’s fish!’ he shouted. ‘Do not stand there like cattle! One of you help me find the Jugular!’

Nobody moved, so I, who was standing next to Pearse, said quietly: ‘You are choking the King, Sir. Will you not let be?’

He then saw, as if for the first time, that the pressure of his left hand was indeed causing great distress and took it away, while swearing under his breath. The King began to retch and vomited up a little greenish slime onto the pillow. I took a handkerchief out of my pocket and wiped the King’s mouth, which was much inflamed, with his tongue swollen and coated yellow.

I called for a servant to bring a clean pillow. The stench coming from the bed was noxious and I thought how, all his life, the King had had a very lovely and recognisable scent to his body, which was like honey mixed with summer fruit, and now he stank like a Polecat, and this made me very melancholy.

But I had no leisure to dwell on it, for I found James Pearse’s Scalpel thrust into my hand and the terrible command given to me to ‘Find the Jugular, Merivel, or no longer consider yourself a Physician worthy to remain in this room!’

Endeavouring to remain calm, I said to Pearse (the resemblance of whose name to my beloved friend John Pearce offended me much): ‘Could you not let blood from the arm? If the Jugular be pierced, then a great quantity of blood will come out – more than you intend, perhaps – and His Majesty will be made very weak.’

‘We have
let
from the arm,’ said Ordinary Pearse, ‘but it is not enough. The Distemper will not yield unless the Convulsive Blood be purged. So please go to it and make no more Fuss.’

In all my years as Physician I had never heard the term ‘Convulsive Blood’, but with all the other Doctors now staring at me, I had no choice but to take up the Scalpel and obey the command.

I leaned down towards the King, laying my hand gently upon his poor neck and talking to him very close. ‘Sir,’ I whispered, ‘it is Merivel. And I have not forgot the Matter we discussed
in
your coach. I am giving all my thought, now, as to how we may arrange it.’

The King’s eyes blinked up at me and he opened his mouth to try to speak. No word came out, but I assumed from this that he had certainly heard me.

I had, I shall admit, no idea how to clear the room of all the people in it and spirit a Catholic Priest to His Majesty’s side – no idea at all – but this I did not say.

Meanwhile a more immediate and terrible task lay before me. To my relief, the Surgeon in Ordinary had left the bedside, giving me a little more space and air. Gently my hand felt round the King’s ear and down his neck. And I remembered how, at the Whittlesea Asylum, John Pearce had let blood from the Jugular Vein of a very choleric man named Piebald and how, as he felt for the vessel, he had said: ‘The Jugular is easy to find, Merivel. It
speaks
to you. It ticks like a clock. Feel here. There it is. There it is not. There is no need to pinch or press to find it. Only listen with your hand to get its voice.’

Not for the first time, I asked the ghost of my departed friend to help me and in this way I was able to remain calm, with my hand steady and my fingers alert for the ‘tick’ of the vein.

And then I got it. I pressed a little harder, just enough to give me sight of it, but endeavouring to cause the Patient no distress or choking. I called for a dish to be placed near my hand and with the Scalpel pierced the vessel. Bright blood immediately cascaded from the minute incision I had made, spilling over my hand and onto my sleeve. As this happened, so the King cried out and began to retch again. Now two other Doctors hurried to my side.

‘A few ounces,’ said one. ‘Do not let too much. See how fast it flows. Contain it now! It must be contained now!’

A wad of Muslin was given to me and this I now had to press very firmly upon the vein to staunch the flow. The dish was taken away. I began talking to the King again, saying, ‘It is done now. It is over. The Convulsive Blood is out.’

I stayed by his side. I wiped his mouth again and dribbled a little water onto his swollen tongue and saw him swallow it. At the other end of the bed the Enema tubes, having done their work of sluicing and voiding, were finally removed and it was not difficult to imagine
that
His Majesty’s poor body had now been deprived of all its vital moisture. I thus continued to give him water and he kept sucking it in, like a helpless babe straining after the mother’s breast. After some time I watched his eyes close and sleep come mercifully upon him.

I did not recount this scene to Margaret and Fubbs. I myself was almost faint from the Agony of it. And to my great dismay, when I returned to Fubbsy’s apartments, I saw that all was disorder and hysteria there.

The Duchess had decided, it appeared, that the King was not going to survive. In terror of finding herself thus abandoned, she was now gathering up all her clothes and jewels, and all the small objects of value that she owned, and packing them away in four Trunks. Margaret was helping her, flying about, concealing Necklaces and Bracelets inside little gold vases and boxes, wrapping furs in Linen, sorting stockings into pairs.

‘Where shall you send the Trunks, Your Grace?’ I asked.

‘Where?’ she yelped. ‘For Goodness sake, Sir Robert, where do you imagine? To the French Embassy, of course, where none of the King’s family can wrench them from me! For I see how it is going to be: His Majesty will barely be laid in the ground before the vultures come and tell me I am a Common French Whore and put me out into the street.’

‘I’m sure they will not do that,’ said I. ‘Everybody knows what a Consolation and comfort you have been to the King …’

‘Oh, indeed? And does the Queen know this?’

‘The Queen has always forgiven the King his Mistresses.’

‘While he breathes, yes. She has had no alternative. But when he has no more breath? Then she will take her revenge on us all and upon our children. She will enjoy seeing us ruined.’

‘It may be true, Papa,’ said Margaret. ‘The Duchess is wise to send her things into safety. Will you help us, for there is much to pack?’

I looked around at the floor, strewn with every manner of thing, from combs to Coffee pots, from Candlesticks to Chinese lacquer vases, from Gold Cutlery to sets of decorated Playing Cards. How
much
of all this truly
belonged
to Fubbsy or had merely been
on loan
to her as part of the furniture of her fine apartments I had no means of telling.

‘What would you have me do?’ I asked weakly. ‘What task do you wish to give me?’

‘Shoes!’ said the Duchess. ‘I have been trying to assemble them in pairs, but many are missing and must be hiding around the rooms, under beds or chairs or I know not where.’

‘Shoes?’

‘Yes. You can see from this how slovenly are the Servants charged with dusting and sweeping, but that is another matter. Please, if you will, search for the missing shoes, Sir Robert. Many have diamond buckles, or jewels sewn into the satin, and are of value, so I cannot leave without them.’

Though I would willingly have sat down and been quiet and taken some Brandy, I had little choice but to do as she requested. I was thus to be observed crawling around the carpets on hands and knees, lifting the heavy hems of curtains, craning my neck to peer beneath chests of drawers and armoires and chaise longues, in a vain search for the Duchess of Portsmouth’s shoes.

And I thought how Pearce would have mocked me for this and called me ‘the Lackey of a Slut’, but I did not really care, for I knew in my heart that my whole world was about to change and how I filled the time between now and the coming in of that terrible Transition was of little concern to me.

I found one shoe. It was an object of beautiful Perfection, made of blue satin, with a high heel, waisted and elegant. The satin was cross-stitched with silver thread and set high on the bridge of the shoe was a flower, made of silver ribbon and having at its centre a little cluster of Seed Pearls.

I held it in my hands and brushed some dirt from it. I noted its smallness and wondered at how petite the Duchess’s feet must be to fit into it. Then I thought about the Shoemaker who had toiled over it and striven to make a faultless thing and my mind returned to my Dutch friend, Jan Hollers, who had attempted perfection with his clocks, but yet had failed by so narrow a margin.

Sorrow filled my heart. Sorrow for Hollers, sorrow for the
Shoemaker
and some kind of sentimental sorrow for the shoe itself, cast so carelessly off.

Very loud in my mind was the clamour of the Promise I had made to the King in his coach, and I knew that I should not
do nothing
about it. Yet I was at some loss as to what I might do.

I knew that it was to the Queen that I should relate my Pledge. But it was impossible, given my known association, through Margaret, with the King’s Mistress, for me to go to the Queen’s apartments and expect to gain entry there. There was only one other person who might help the King to the secret conversion that he wished for and that was the Duke of York.

The Duke had little liking for me. He once told me that I brought out the King’s ‘idle and slothful disposition’ and so put in jeopardy the running of the nation. But I feared that Time was short now, and did not know what else I could do except to try to talk to the Duke and place the matter in his hands.

After taking a little midday dinner with Fubbs and Margaret, and other of her Women brought in to help with the Duchess’s packing, I thus excused myself from the duty of searching for shoes and began to make my way back to the King’s apartments, where I hoped to find York and somehow get his private attention.

The corridors at Whitehall, always thronging with People, were even more choked than usual. But it seemed to me that anxiety and sorrow at the King’s dying had somehow affected these poor souls’ ability to
hold themselves up
. Everybody I passed was either leaning against the wall or slumped down upon the stone benches, or else moving with infinite slowness, and I concluded that all their normal Purpose, which was to see the King and get from him some Favour or Preferment (and towards which they usually proceeded with sprightly alacrity), had been taken from them, so that now they knew not what they did nor where they were going, for they had no true aim, but were yet reluctant to leave.

Trying not to be contaminated by this festering Slowness, I hastened on my way and only paused when I heard somebody call out my name and saw, coming towards me, Father John Huddleston, an old and trusted friend of the King’s, who had helped to conceal him
during
his great flight from Worcester in 1651 and who had been rewarded by being given a position in the Catholic Household of the Queen.