came there, and whether any have touched it and of what kind, if any, is the fluid or matter that comes out of it.'
But Nell did not speak or move. With the light upon her face now, I could see on her cheek a number of large moles or warts, of the disfiguring kind that so distressed poor Oliver Cromwell, our sometime leader and chief of the Commonwealth. It is common medical knowledge that a body, once afflicted by these things, is very often host to terrible flowerings and crops of them, as if they grew from spores of themselves like mushrooms, and I fully expected, as Nell at last unwound her shawl, to see another such a one upon her neck.
Revealed eventually, however, the growth, seated below the ear and on the pathway of the jugular vein, did not resemble a wart. It was the size of a small coin and of a liverish brown colour, the skin being most raised towards its centre. I had seen nothing like it during all my anatomical years. Had the skin not been discoloured, I would have pronounced it to be the puckered vestigial scar of some boil or fistula, but the pigmenting of the skin was most pronounced, whereas scar tissue becomes white over time. The thing that it most brought to mind was indeed a small nipple, such as one might see upon the half-grown breasts of a child of twelve years.
Most crucial in my inspection of the thing would be my touching of it – to see what reaction this could cause in the old woman and to determine whether any issue came forth from it.
Nell stayed still, one hand always caressing my fur, but I now felt her body wracked by a violent trembling. At my back, the thumping on the door and the shouts from the village people became more impatient.
'Well?' hissed Sackpole. 'What do you find?'
And I faltered.
A moment ago, I had felt disgust, then fear. I had bid myself to be calm and go about my task with the alert yet passive mind of the physician. But now as I tried to take the nipple (or whatever the thing might prove to be) between my finger and thumb and I felt the intensity of the fear in Nell's being, I was prey to a most sudden and profound feeling of sorrow and despair. For one last moment, I remained kneeling, regarding the hard, cold, knotted hand of Wise Nell on the badger snout. Then I stood up. I turned to the shadows where Sackpole waited.
'To the best of my knowledge, there is no matter out of the ordinary here,' I said. 'The thing is a simple cyst.'
And I fled from the place, pushing my way out through the throng of people who snatched at me – with hands and words – and then breaking into a run.
I have no recollection of what I did next. Presumably, I found my horse and mounted and rode home, but I do not remember doing this. The next memory that I have is of lying in a hot bath and being stared at by Will who had noticed several welts upon the skin of my shoulders, as if something or someone had scratched me there. 'Badly, Sir,' he says. 'Very badly.'
Then I am readying myself for my soiree. My shoulders are bandaged. I feel, in my stomach and in my mind a deep unease.
I go downstairs and I hear myself tell the musicians, who have just arrived, that my party has been cancelled. I give them money and bid them go home. I then call Will and instruct him to ride to de Gourlay's house and tell the family that I am ill and that there will be no musical evening.
At this moment, Celia descends the stairs. She is wearing a dress of dove grey taffeta, its bodice laced with apricot ribbons. In her hair, newly curled into ringlets, are more ribbons of this same bewitching colour.
I cannot move. Down she comes, down towards me, and for once she is smiling and I know that this smile is for me, and I feel the beauty of it, right to my bowel. And so at last, at the end of this most troubling day on which I have been told that my life is edging towards a great fall, I admit to myself what I have known since the night of the Bathurst's party, that I have done the one thing of which the King believed me to be incapable: I have fallen in love with my wife.
Chapter Twelve. A Drowning
I am ashamed to set down what happened on the evening of my birthday, yet I will try to do so, in the hope that the act of writing will assuage my guilt somewhat and allow me the rest that has eluded me for two nights.
I was not hungry and the thought of the elaborate meal I had had prepared for Degeulasse and his family disgusted me. All I wanted was to be alone with Celia.
Taking her hand (I tried to make this gesture a gentle and affectionate one, but I fear it was rough and peremptory) I said: 'Celia. It is a clear night. Come with me to the roof and we shall look at the stars through my telescope and try to read our futures.'
Celia protested that she would feel cold upon the roof and that our absence would be discourteous to my guests.
'There are no guests,' I said. 'No one is coming.'
At this moment, Finn appeared in the hall, dressed in his scarlet and gold attire and his blond wig. He looked reproachfully at my hand gripping Celia's wrist. 'You may take off your silly garb, Robin,' I said acidly. 'There is to be no evening.'
(My jealousy of Finn is like a tumour on my liver. It spreads and I grow jaundiced and sick.)
So I climb up to my roof, pulling Celia after me. We step out onto the freezing leads. I stare up at the sky and there is the crowded Cosmos, infinite and beyond measure. Of all the conflicting rules that govern its existence, I am ignorant, even, of the first one, or so I discover.
Celis is shivering. I take off my coat (a black camlet thing, frogged with gold braid) and put it round her shoulders.
I put my eye to the telescope. As I scan the sky, I see, at first, only the meaningless dust of the heavens. Then I notice that the planet Jupiter, with its little girdle of moons, is very bright tonight. 'Ah,' I say, posing as a man who knows his way about the planets and the stars, '
I guide Celia to the telescope. Despite the little warmth afforded by my coat, she is still trembling. I am reminded of the fear of the afternoon. The knowledge that Celia is afraid dismays me. I must soothe and quieten her. So I put my arms around her. She cannot pull away from me, for we are on the very precipice of the roof. 'No, Merivel!' she cries out. But I cannot let her go. I cannot. I have not the will. I turn her towards me. She tugs her head away from me, just as Wise Nell tried to do so that I would not touch her teat. It is not my hand that reaches for Celia's neck, but my lips. On the very place where a witch may suckle her creature, I begin to kiss her. She struggles and cries out again, but I do not let go. And now I am no longer satisfied with the smooth flesh of the neck. I want her mouth. Using all my strength, I bring her head towards mine. I feel her breasts against my chest. My head is throbbing and my breath coming in short gasps. And I force upon her a lover's kiss.
Not for one moment does she yield, but struggles every instant to be free of me. I am hot now. As heated as a boy with wanting. Celia arches her back, frees her mouth from mine. In place of the lost kiss I smother her with words. I beg her to think no more about the King. 'If he is not weary of you now, then in one year he will be. For have I not said it, he is mercury and cannot be held or kept. He will never give you the child you want, Celia. Never! But I could give you a child. Have my son! For I am your husband and all I ask of you is that you allow me to love you!'
And then she spat at me. She spat in my eyes, blinding me for a brief moment – long enough for me to slacken my grip and for her to stumble towards the window through which we had climbed, letting my coat fall from her shoulders. When I turned, she was clambering in and screaming, screaming for Sophia, the odious Farthingale.
I could have followed and caught her. I could have thrown her down on the attic floor.
I did not. I wiped her spittle from my eyes. I damned God and damned my parents for my foul nature. I cursed a world in which I had no one to love me but whores and courtesans. I kicked violently at the base of the telescope, thus cruelly bruising my toe.
