The plot thickens
Don't believe everything you read
August 12th 1678
It being Sunday, I went out into the poor districts of the capital to administer to the sick. Perhaps going out in such wretched weather will please the Lord, as there is a fog and much rain besides. The streets of the capital leave nothing to envy. Every day I set out, I think back to my time in exile. How foolish to disdain the city that gave me shelter. The older version of myself would box the younger until he saw the error of his ways.
Word seems to have spread, as within an hour, I found myself approached by a young girl with a pathetic face, asking me to help her mother. She led me through a warren of streets, some so narrow I needed to hold my arms tight to my sides as I walked. It is a complete scandal how these poor wretches live. The tumble-down timber frames look like the homes folk hastily assembled after the fire twelve years ago. The daughter asked me to wait outside whilst she spoke with her mother. As I waited, the rain trickled down my neck, the filth in every crevice from soot leaving a trail like a signature. Some days I find it hard to fathom that this is the same country three kingdoms spilt blood over to preserve. After much talk, the daughter invited me inside. She did this out of mere convention. They had no front door, only a blanket she pulled aside.
My patient lay on a filthy bed. The woeful ventilation rendered the smouldering fire almost useless. You could hear her neighbours coughing. The daughter seemed used to it. She explained that her mother fell and scraped her leg most woefully. Fortunately, I am well-practised enough by now to diagnose off the top of my head. In the past, I excused myself and would step out to consult the Herbal of Nicholas Culpeper somewhere private, for it does not build confidence in a doctor for them to see him consult a book.
“When did this happen?” I asked the daughter. Nobody would answer me. The smell from the leg told its own story. It happened several weeks ago.
“Have you taken anything for this?”
“We’ve prayed,” said the daughter.
“Any medicine?” I asked.
“We ain’t got no money for doctors,” said the girl. “The Robinsons used to live down the road, but they left after the fire.”
“Witchcraft!” hissed the mother through gritted teeth. “All that messing around with herbs and potions is witchcraft.” That made me hesitate.
“I must let you know,” I said in as firm a voice as I could, “that you will find my methods unusual.” The mother opened her mouth to say something. A fresh wave of pain hit her, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
Taking this as permission, I got to work applying a cold lotion of egg yolk, oil of roses, and turpentine. The mother proved as brave as a lion through the whole thing. Perhaps the cold sensation felt like a relief on her inflamed skin. I knew they expected me to produce leeches or bleed them.
“Where did you learn that?” asked the daughter.
“In the army,” I told her. “I read the works of a soldier who said it worked on his comrades.” I took great care not to tell her the soldier was French. There have already been enough rumours of spies sent by Louis XIV.
“Bless you, sir,” said the mother. She pointed towards a corner, and the daughter produced a few pennies from some hiding place. Even if I wanted them, the pennies were so dirty that the King’s face could not be made out.
“There is no need,” I said. “I am carrying out one of the corporal works of mercy.” The mother sagged back, smiling slowly.
As the daughter attended to her, I packed up my belongings, thinking of a way to leave a small sum of monies without shaming them. My eye caught something on the floor which made me freeze. I glanced over at the daughter and the mother. I would need to bend down. It could draw their attention. My heart beat a military tattoo. The daughter seemed to notice me out of the corner of her eye and turned her head, wondering perhaps why I lingered. Would the gloom of the room protect me? I couldn’t risk it. Perhaps movement would cast light from the fire. I dropped my bag on the floor and feigned a stumble, coming down with it. As I did, I threw my right hand out wide and clenched my fist.
The daughter ran over, all concern.
“Are you alright sir? Did a rat trip you?” I go very still. Rats are especially bold here and it made me sore afraid. They are particularly bad in army camps where they grow to fear neither beast nor man. She took my arm and helped me stand. I did so very awkwardly, my fist still clenched. Lucky for me, she bent to pick up my doctor’s instruments, which enabled me slip my right hand into my bag. Several of the instruments were badly bent, and one of my phials broke. I insisted in helping her gather up the fragments. She thanked me profusely the whole time. Although I did it without expectation of thanks, I noted with a pang that perhaps she seldom receives such a kindness. At last, she bid me farewell and I stepped into a doorway to ensure my eyes didn’t deceive me.
Staring up at me, I saw the woven blessed virgin portrait, framed by a neat rectangle. The scapular, which fell off from the string and that I have worn since my baptism. Would they have recognised it? I do not know. Most impoverished people only know the faith through vile cartoons which make out the priests to be devils and the Pope as Lucifer. Yet I couldn’t take the risk.
As I arrived home, I ran into Israel Tongue, my master’s lodger. He is a deeply unpleasant man who encourages my master’s worst impulses. Every evening they spent together, it descends into Tongue ranting about the Catholic menace. It saddens me to hear such a good man as my master talk about forced exile for all papists. At such times, I have to remind myself that all men are sinners. I too, have my own penance to complete. Tongue asks me where I went and I said church.
“Your master is a good man to have a non-conformist under his roof. That is a great risk that I would not endure,” he says in his wheedling, sing-song voice.
“I thank you for your concern,” I say, trying to step aside.
“There are papists abroad,” he said. I paid no attention to this. Every time he talks with my master they sit up discussing a Jesuit conspiracy and working themselves into a frightful state. God help me, I didn’t see Tongue for weeks and part of me hoped that he came across some misfortune. Yet here he is again, like a bad penny. I made my excuses and decided to keep to my chambers. This is very tiresome. It makes me pang even more for the life I left when we lived in exile. Perhaps it makes one prideful, yet people showed me such respect. They would express their horror at the martyrdom of the King and praise my loyalty. Every night would end in a toast being drunk to the health of Charles II and ill fortune to Cromwell. Marie arrives. I see by her expression that she also encountered Tongue. She tells me nobody saw her. It is her idea for us to travel to Mass separately on a Sunday. She waits behind, and I go on ahead so we are not observed. I did not share the close shave I had at the poor families house with Marie. She would only worry.
“Is your penance not complete?” she asks tp me.
“God will give me a sign,” I say. “What use is all this knowledge if I do not apply it?”
“There are rumours,” she says. “This makes people fearful. All it takes is one person who sees a stranger and calls you a threat.” Marie sees more virtue in the sacraments.
“I will never let that happen,” I say. “This too, shall pass.”
“Shall we play?” She gets out our deck of cards, and we forget our worries. The candle lights up the side of her face, making her look heaven-sent. It grieves me that she isn’t sitting in a grander room
August 13th 1678
Monday means grinding my master’s herbs for medicine. Marie says that this is a boy’s job and we should hire a lad. More expense for our master. Marie went to the herb garden to gather more and returned in haste.
“Look!” Her flushed, excitable appearance made me frown. Any physick should be ministered in a calm, placid environment. Marie waved a document.
“What do you have?”
“I found it in the Wainscot.” I took it from her.
“How could it have got there?” The paper looked badly made and the title badly formatted; “A true narrative of the horrid plot and conspiracy of the popish party against the life of His Sacred Majesty, the government and the Protestant religion: with a list of such noblemen, gentlemen and others as were the conspirators, and the head-officers both civil and military that were to effect it / humbly presented to His Most Excellent Majesty by Titus Oates.” I turned a page. “There are eighty-one articles.”
Marie snatched it so hard she almost tore a page.
“We must burn this!”
“Burn it?”
“Now!” She moved towards the fireplace, eyes beseeching me. I hesitated.
“We have a duty?”
“A duty?”
“Yes, to show this.” Marie didn’t move. She knows I am right. If we concealed our knowledge of a plot, then we would be privy to treason.
“Take it to Dr Barker,” I said. “He will see your good intentions.” Marie touched her face with a shaking hand. I warned her of the hostility we would face in England. Yet it is one thing to hear about it and another to live through it day to day. I can’t blame her for trying to protect herself. More and more, the public sees France as a ravaging dragon. I went with her to hand over the item.
As we made our way down the Hall, Mr Tongue appeared. His face looked frightfully red, and his gaze bounded from place to place. He started back upon seeing Marie. Dr Barker left his study at the same time. Tongue darted forward and grabbed the manuscript from my wife’s hands. He thrust it into Dr Barker’s hands. The whole thing shocked us so much, it robbed us of words.
“What is this?” cried Dr Barker after reading the article. Before my wife or I could speak, Tongue cried out that he spotted it in the Wainscott and made haste to bring it to him. I spoke up for my wife. Unfortunately, by this point, Dr Barker had turned the pages, begun reading the 81 sections, and lost any interest in anything else. Tongue bustled him into the study, looking over his shoulder to grin as he went.
Returning to my work, I continued it absently. A wainscott is a powerfully strange place to have a manuscript. How could it get there? Who wrote it? Tongue seemed intent on Dr Barker finding it, yet why? An hour or so later, Dr Barker summoned me to his study. I kissed Marie goodbye and trembled as I walked. Perhaps Tongue deduced yesterday where I really went on Sunday, and the good doctor decided to dismiss me. He stood with his back to me as I entered.
“Ah, Nicholas. We must hurry.” I said nothing. “A house call.”
“What happened to Mr Tongue?” I said timidly. He paused in packing his bag and sighed deeply.
“I am an academic, Nicholas. I cannot pass judgment on anything without knowing the author, and the author of thar piece if literature is not known to me. Whoever wrote it clearly went to a great deal of trouble- it says nothing for its veracity. It is clearly a work of idle mischief. I am no friend to the Catholics. Someone wrote this to make me a catspaw. Anything without proof is gossip. I have no time for gossip” I danced for joy in my heart. My trust in Dr Barker was rewarded.
“Where is Mr Tongue?” I asked.
“He went to see Mr Oates, his friend.” I thought nothing of this as the name meant nothing to me.
“You are forgetting something, Nicholas,” Dr Barker went on.
“I am?” I said.
“It is the stone feast.” I laughed. On the first day I joined Dr Barker’s household, we operated on a young man for a kidney stone. He told me afterwards that a man who could handle such an operation without flinching could withstand anything.
“What a grave omission on my part to forget,” I said, bowing.
“Your father would be proud.” I smiled, to please him. Father would see it as a great humiliation to return to England and be dependent on someone else for shelter and income.
“He would be glad I’m tending to injuries instead of healing them,” I said. We went about our rounds and celebrated the Stone feast at dinner. It made for a pleasant evening and I deceived myself that I almost forgot the unpleasant business with Mr Tongue by bedtime until my wife told me she heard from a friend that Mr Tongue took the manuscript to Christopher Kirkby. All my good mood disappeared and I shivered.
“I told you we should have burned it,” she said.
13th August 1678
I made my way to St James’ Park because on this day, the King makes it his habit to take a walk. He does so both for his health and to be seen by the people. As I make my way there, I tell myself not to worry. The King is a man of science, with his own telescope that he uses to observe the planets. I went to intercept him, to get to him before Tongue could poison his mind. I made some excuse to Dr Barker, which grieved me greatly. No matter, I would make up for it on Sunday. Then I saw the King, and it transfixed me. He is a tall fellow, well over six feet in height with a dark complexion, rather like an Italian. His mouth and eyes are very large. The colour of his eyes is black. Approaching him, I felt a deep sense of melancholy coming off the man. It made him look older than his true age.
“Your royal highness,” I called out, bowing deeply. The King halted and looked towards me. My heart beat fast and my words nearly refused to come out. What an extraordinary thing to stand before a sovereign.
“My father served your highnesses’ royal father at Naseby and Marston Moor. We lived in Exile and lost our lands as a result.”
“I thank you for your service,” said the King. “Did you come here seeking a pension?” Overcome, I bowed again. Then again. The man accompanying the King looked irritable.
“I did not come for that, no, your majesty,” I went on. “I came to warn you that a man may come seeking mischief.” The King looked grave. “He will come to tell you of a Catholic plot to kill you” The man accompanying the King put a hand on his arm. King Charles removed it and raised his own hand. I stopped speaking. His sorrowful expression moved me deeply. I had done it, I told myself. The King would perform his duty to protect everyone. I did the right thing by trusting my master, and now my faith will be rewarded.
“Perhaps this is the man,” said the King, without taking his eyes off me. I tell
you, it is quite a feeling to be looked at in this way. The King looked at me as if the world consisted of just he and I.
Yes, sire,” said the man accompanying him.
“I have already met with a gentleman who warned me of a plot against my life,” said the King. “He found it in a home owned by a doctor. I asked him to come back this evening to be questioned.” My heart sank. I came too late! That rogue, Tongue, found the King first and told him the contents of the manuscript.
“My master, Dr Barker believes it to be a fraud,” I said, my throat dry.
“Christopher Kirkby told us himself,” said the King’s gentleman, icily. “He is a respected chemist who has assisted the King personally.” The King raised a hand adaom,
“We shall investigate the matter in full.” He looked at me/ His expression made me breathe easier. An investigation would reveal nothing. Then the whole matter would be forgotten.
“Are you a doctor?” It took me a moment to realised the King was addressing me.
“I am in the process of learning,” I said. “There are many new and exciting discoveries being made.” The King’s eyes lit up.
“There are indeed,” he said warmly. “Perhaps I will read of your work in the Royal Society.” He saluted me and left the park. I went home to tell Marie the good news. She remarked that people said the King cared more for chemistry than biology, so perhaps that is why he listened to the chemist. Although this annoyed me, I let it go. She has a delicate constitution, and this whole affair disrupted her nervous system.
6th September 1678
I went to Mass in much higher spirits. We heard no more about the manuscript after the meeting in the park. Marie and I still take precautions when we go to Mass, we still travel separately and make sure we are not seen as anxiety and suspicion about Catholics is still high. Several people approached me at the service asking about my meeting with the King.
I promised them all solemnly that the King handed off the investigation to his trusted advisors. Someone observed that the Duke of York is himself Catholic. Nobody doubts where his loyalties lie. My wife seemed less reassured. She said that Mr Tongue and his new friend, the man Titus Oates were summoned many times to speak with the King’s men. That suggests they had something worth listening to. She worries too much. Men entrusted with protecting the King’s life must be shown to be thorough.
17th of October 1678
The whole city is in uproar. I am too afraid to go out and tell my master I am sick. Indeed, I am sick at heart. Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey, the judge entrusted with the investigation of the plot against the King’s life, was found dead. He had a reputation for being a stern judge and an arch protestant. Before this, there had been troubling rumours about Jesuits being rounded up. Yet that did so seem unusual. To be Catholic is to expect harassment accompanied by rumours and the report of rumours.
It is just a matter of time until I am betrayed. Revealed as a Catholic. All the city is abuzz with the Lords named as partners in this plot to destroy the monarchy. Men wear armour when they go out at night. I treated the sick for free on Sundays as a penance for the wicked life I led as a young man. Now I see it was not enough. I must do greater penance still. I will put on a hair shirt and attach weights to my ankles. If I will die because of my faith, perhaps God will forgive my sins. Lord have mercy.