The King's Evil

was unloaded here, we would set sail to collect another. The Maid of Kent was a trim vessel, I'll say that for her. When we clapped on full sail, she could outrun most of her rivals. Yes,' he sighed nostalgically, 'when Sir Ambrose was not aboard, I had some good times on that ship.'

'And since then?'

'I joined the crew of a coastal vessel, bringing coal down from Newcastle. Miserable work until I was forced out of it.'

'Forced out?'

'This face,' said the man, jabbing a stubby finger at it. 'There's no better way to lose shipmates than to sprout a crop such as I did. They could not bear to look on me lest they catch some disease. When the captain discharged me, I could not find anyone else to take me on. It is just as well, really. The sea spray used to make these boils sting so much I felt that my face was on fire.'

He took a long, noisy sip from his tankard then wiped his lips with the back of his arm. Jonathan coaxed as much detail as he could out of the man about his time on Sir Ambrose Northcott's vessel. He was surprised to hear how often the owner went on the voyages. War did not seem to hinder his business. He traded covertly with countries which were nominally at odds with his own.

'Sir Ambrose sounds like a doughty privateer,' said Jonathan.

'I'd sooner call him a black-hearted bastard.'

The man's reminiscences became harsher as he retailed examples of what he saw as the iniquities of Sir Ambrose Northcott. By the time his companion had finished, Jonathan had been given some valuable insights into the commercial activities of the dead man. He memorised the details so that he could pass them on to Christopher Redmayne. Whatever his doubts about the latter, he had to admit that the architect had dedicated himself to the pursuit of the killer in the most selfless manner. Working with him might not turn out as unpleasant a task as he feared.

A degree of jollity at last entered the Jolly Sailor. Drink was flowing more freely, raucous ditties were being sung, customers were flirting with the landlady and two of them were trying to dance in the middle of the floor. Jonathan decided to leave before the first brawl started but he paid to have the other man's tankard filled first.

'Will you not drink with me?' said the sailor.

'I still have a drop left here, my friend.'

'Then let us have a toast.'

'Gladly.'

'To my future health!' said the man.

'I'll drink to that,' said Jonathan, raising his tankard before emptying it with one long gulp. 'I hope that you soon find the cure for your ailment and get back to sea where you belong.'

'I have one last chance.'

'Last chance?'

'When I take my boils to the finest physician in London.'

'And who might that be?'

'Why,' said the man proudly. 'His Majesty, of course. They say that the King's Touch can cure any disease. Tomorrow, I am to present myself to Mr Knight, His Majesty's surgeon, who lives in Bridges Street at the sign of the Hare in Covent Garden. When he has examined me, I will be given a ticket to join those other sufferers who will receive the King's Touch the next day.'

'I wish you luck, my friend!'

'I put my faith in His Majesty.'

'That is more than I would do,' murmured Jonathan.

'Many men have felt the King's Touch.'

'And many women, too,' said the other under his breath.

'I have heard tell of miracles taking place this way,' he added aloud. 'I pray that you will be cured by one.'

'I have to be,' said the man with an edge of desperation. 'This face of mine is cursed. I'll not endure the pain for much longer. Mind you, I will admit this. There are other poor souls in a worse condition than me. Most of those who will go before His Majesty are stricken with the King's Evil, as they call it. Scrofula. A cruel disease. It can turn a beautiful face into vile ugliness. I have seen men whose skin looked as if they have been flayed alive and some have been so stricken that they went blind.' He drank some more beer, then belched. 'Have you ever seen anyone with the King's Evil?'

'Oh, yes!' said Jonathan ruefully. 'Indeed, I have, my friend. I have seen a whole city afflicted with it.'

'A whole city? What is it called?'

'London.'

The ceremony was held at the Banqueting House. Since it was his first visit there, Christopher Redmayne took the opportunity to study what was, architecturally, the most striking part of Whitehall Place. He found it pure joy to view the work of Inigo Jones at such close quarters. Faced with Portland stone and built at a cost of over fifteen thousands pounds, the Banqueting House was the first exclusively Renaissance building in the capital and, in the opinion of most observers, still by far the best. The scale of the interior filled Christopher with awe and his eyes took in every lush detail. He spent so much time gazing up at the ceiling, adorned by a Rubens painting in celebration of the benefits of wise rule, that his neck began to ache. Sheer scale once again hypnotised him.

'Look at the size of those figures,' he urged, pointing upwards.

'I have seen them before,' said his brother airily.

'The cherubs must be almost ten feet high.'

'I prefer my cherubs lying horizontally on a bed.'

'Henry!'

'Pay attention. I brought you here to watch the ceremony and not to goggle at the ceiling like some country bumpkin on his first visit to London.' A loud murmur of interest went up. 'Ah, here is the King.'

Preceded by two priests in their vestments, Charles II entered at the head of a stately procession and made his way up the steps of a small dais to take his seat on the throne. Christopher was at the rear of the hall but, even from that distance, he thought that the King cut an impressive figure. Charles was a tall, dignified man with long, black, curly, shining hair and a black moustache. A leader of fashion, he was dressed in the French style with a long scarlet vest beneath his coat and black shoes offset by scarlet bows. It was the first time that Christopher had ever seen him in person and he was irresistibly reminded of the reward placard which he saw on display after the Battle of Worcester in 1651 and which described the royal fugitive as 'a tall, black man upwards of two yards high'.

There was a swarthiness about the kingly countenance which gave him a slightly foreign air but his bearing was that of a Stuart monarch with a firm belief in the Divine Right of his rule and in the importance of the ceremony in which he was to officiate. The face was striking rather than handsome and it wore such a grave expression that Christopher found it difficult to reconcile the man whom he saw before him with the rampant satyr of common report. A royalist by instinct, he felt a surge of pride in his monarch and admired the graceful ease with which he presided over the assembly.

When the priests had read from the Book of Common Prayer, the King's surgeons brought in the diseased supplicants to present them to him. There were almost five hundred of them in all and they gave off a communal odour of sickness. Some limped, some hobbled, some had to be carried into the royal presence. Most were afflicted with scrofula, the King's Evil, which blighted them with swollen glands and unsightly skin conditions. More advanced cases of the disease could lead to blindness and other frightening disabilities. As they shuffled in strict order towards the dais, the Gospel was read by one of the priests and the stirring words of St Mark echoed through the chamber.

'Afterward he appeared unto the eleven as they sat at meat, and upbraided them with their unbelief and hardness of heart, because they believed not them which had seen him after he was risen. And he said unto them, Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature. He that believeth, and is baptised, shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned. And these signs shall follow them that believe; in my name shall they cast out devils, they shall speak with new tongues. They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing,