The Devlin Diary (17 page)

Hannah crosses the room, bottle at the ready, to give the medicine to Louise. The mademoiselle opens her mouth to the spoon willingly, like a baby bird being fed.

The king clears his throat. “Mrs. Devlin, will my little Fubsy be well enough to dance a coranto before long?”

“I believe she is much improved, Your Majesty.”

“How many days?”

“It may be more appropriate to measure her recovery in weeks instead of days, Majesty.”

“Weeks? I do not want to wait weeks.”

Hannah has little doubt that he is talking about something other than dancing. The mademoiselle would be better off if the king no longer favored her with his attentions, but saying so will endear her to neither of them. Or to Lord Arlington, she realizes, as she sees him looking at her fearfully. “I am sure Your Majesty is well aware of the severity of the fever the mademoiselle has suffered. If she continues to improve as rapidly as she has, I should think that she may be dancing again in two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” he repeats. From his mouth it sounds like a death sentence. “I think not. I think…” His eyes rove from Hannah to Louise and back again as the courtiers hold their breath. “I think she will be well enough in ten days.”

She cannot believe it, but the king is trying to bargain with her, as if the mademoiselle’s health were only a matter of opinion and personal interest. “Two weeks, Your Majesty,” she says firmly.

“Perhaps your physick is not as effective as it should be, Mrs. Devlin. Might it not be made stronger, so that it can work more quickly?” The king gives her one more chance to say what he wants to hear. Arlington appears as though he’s about to have an apoplectic fit.

She disappoints them both. “Even the best physick must be given time to work, Your Majesty. I believe it will require two more weeks.” She looks him in the eye, and for a split second she feels certain that he fully understands exactly what she means: the mademoiselle is to be left alone for this length of time. She hopes he has been able to discern her secondary message, that he will remain continent before climbing back into the mademoiselle’s bed and so not expose her to illness again. But
Charles Stuart’s eyes are blank and inscrutable, and she can’t be at all sure that he comprehends her meaning.

The king turns away from her. His interest is seldom held for long. It appears that he is going to speak again, but instead he is distracted when the bedchamber door opens and one of the king’s guards is let into the room. He swiftly walks up to Arlington and the king and bows.

“Your Majesty, my lords, forgive me for my interruption. There has been an accident on Whitehall Street, and we have not been able to find a doctor.”

“Have you called on Dr. Pearce or Dr. Fraser?” Arlington asks.

“Both, my lord, but they are not in their rooms, and no one seems to know where to find them. My captain thought you might know their whereabouts. There is no time to waste—a man has been badly injured.”

“What about Dr. Goddard?” Arlington asks.

The young guard looks embarrassed. He whispers into Arlington’s ear. “I see,” Arlington says, nodding. “He’s in his cups,” the minister informs the king. “What about the apothecary?” he asks the guard.

“His shop is closed.”

“Wait.” The king raises his hand, and everyone falls silent. He looks at Hannah. Arlington seems to know at once what the king is considering.

“I don’t think that is a good idea, Your Majesty.”

“Why should we search any further? We have a fine physician right here, one who is very decided in her opinions and seems to be quite sure of herself. What say you, Mrs. Devlin? If you can treat this man, I will grant you the two weeks you request for your physick to work. If not, I will insist that the mademoiselle be cured in ten days.”

“Majesty, we have tried to be discreet about Mrs. Devlin’s presence at court,” Arlington says.

“You mean it’s a secret?”

“Yes.”

“Then everyone is sure to know.” He turns to the guard. “Where is this man?”

“We took him to the tack room in the stables, sir. It was the closest shelter we could find.”

T
HE KING BRISKLY
leads the way through the courtyard to the palace gate, the phalanx of courtiers behind him scrambling to keep up with his long stride, dogs barking at their heels. Accustomed to the king’s pace, Arlington slows down for a moment to speak to Hannah. “If you disappoint the king in any way, I will be made most unhappy,” he warns. As he returns to his place at the king’s side, Montagu falls into step next to her.

“Did my Lord Arlington mean that I should fail?” she asks.

“No, he means that the king is testing you,” Montagu says, pitching his voice low so that she alone can hear. “I have seen His Majesty do this before. Do not hesitate to do whatever you must do. If you vacillate or are uncertain, he will see it as weakness, and it will give him good reason to banish you from court.”

“I will not be altogether unhappy about that.”

“But Arlington will be. Beware of him. He may seem reasonable, even harmless at times, but I assure you he never is. He will make good on his threat.”

They cross Whitehall Street and enter the king’s stable-yard. From inside the stables they hear a commotion of shouting and protest, then
one man’s voice rises above the others. “Lay off me, you damn blackguards!”

Hannah and Montagu follow the king and the others through an open door, finding a tack room with bridles and reins hanging on the walls and, in a corner, a stack of saddles in need of repair. On a table in the center of the room, under the shabby glow of a rusted iron chandelier, four of the king’s guards attempt to restrain a fifth man, who lies on his back on the table. “For God’s sake, hold him down!” the captain shouts to the three others. The man on the table—not a guard but a rougher sort, dressed only in a torn wool tabard—is strong enough to require the combined effort of all four.

“I’ll crawl out of here on my hands, you bloody bastards, but I won’t have some drunken sawbones hacking away at my leg!” he shouts.

“You’ll stay here until we find a proper doctor to take a look at you,” the captain replies. He is a man of twenty-five or so, of apparent good sense. His voice is heated as he speaks to the injured man, but he appears to have a difficult situation somewhat under his control. “We’ve already sent for—”

Lord Arlington stamps his walking stick on the stone floor and clears his throat. “His Majesty the king,” he announces.

At his words the guards look up and spring instantly to attention. The injured man stops thrashing. “The king?” he says with amazement, as though he is dreaming.

Charles walks over to the captain and motions for Hannah to follow. The captain bows low. “Your Majesty, we are honored by your presence—”

The king waves him silent. “What has happened here?”

“This coachman fell from his post at the back of a carriage, and was hit by another that was coming along directly behind. It wasn’t the other’s fault, they couldn’t have stopped in time. Not to mention that it’s not yet noon and this man here is as drunk as a lord.” He peers past the king. “Begging your pardon, Lord Arlington.”

Arlington purses his mouth but doesn’t respond. The guards move aside as the king steps up to the table and leans over the coachman. “What is your name, man?”

“Nat Henley, Your Majesty.” His spasmodic shaking is an involuntary response to intolerable pain. “I assure you, Majesty,” Henley says, sweating and trembling, “this here hurt is nothing much. I’m a hardy fellow, I’ll be healed by tomorrow with no more than a whore’s blessing, ’scusing your pardon. No need for a doctor, surely—”

“Mr. Henley, I’ve brought a physician to examine you.”

He gulps, and his shaking grows worse. “You are most kind, Majesty.”

Hannah steps forward, and Nat Henley’s flushed, sweating face comes into view. His skin is reddened and rough; his nose appears as if it’s been in more than one scuffle in the past. His thinning hair barely covers his large head, but in spite of his advanced age Henley looks as strong as a stevedore. His shoes and pants have already been removed, revealing muscular thighs and the bloody mess that was once the lower half of his left leg. Henley’s glance skips over Hannah, then roams the room.

“Where is the doctor?”

“She’s standing right next to me,” the king says. “Can you not see her?”

“But that’s a woman!”

“Indeed she is, Mr. Henley.”

“But—but that’s not possible!” Nat Henley’s eyes dart around the tack room as if looking for an escape, or perhaps for someone to reassure him that what he’d heard was a jest or a lie. “It’s a sin against nature, it is!” he protests. “I’ll not be worked on by a woman, by God!” He pushes himself up from the table, but the guards are on him fast, one to each limb, and they wrestle with him as they did before the king’s entrance. Henley’s face suddenly turns pale, and he stops struggling against his captors. He breathes rapidly a few times, then his eyes roll up to heaven and he falls back onto the table in a dead faint.

“Thank God, he’s finally out,” one of the guards says as they release him and relax, remaining in place in case Henley should wake again.

The king turns to Hannah. “I had not imagined that a woman physician could be so effective.” He raises his brow slightly. “Well done.”

The guards find benches for the king and his entourage to sit upon. While they are being seated—the tack room being transformed into an operating theater of sorts—Hannah walks around the table to better inspect Nat Henley’s leg.

It is brutally injured, that much is obvious even before she removes the blood-soaked rag that’s been wrapped around the wounded limb. With it she wipes away some blood from the calf so she can more clearly assess the damage. Both bones of the lower leg are broken beyond repair. Their splintered ends are visible, having burst through the torn skin about four inches below the knee. The anterior and lateral calf muscles are cut and bleeding, but the posterior muscles and tendons are still intact and connect the knee to the ankle. The foot is twisted around so far that it is nearly facing backward. It is astonishing that Mr. Henley was able to withstand the pain as long as he did before passing out.

She is in no doubt about what must be done: the leg will have to be amputated. It is not possible for Henley to survive this injury. The bones cannot be set, and so there is no way for it to heal on its own. His chance of surviving the operation is perhaps fifty percent, perhaps not even that, but without it he will certainly die.

“Well, Mrs. Devlin?” the king says. “What do you make of it?”

She turns to face him and her audience, three rows of pale faces in the shadows: the king and Arlington, Montagu and the other courtiers, their footmen in the back. The king appears unusually interested: he is known to have an interest in medicine, particularly in the surgical arts. This is not uncommon among kings, who are always looking for new ways to solve the problems of injury and disease among their fighting forces, but Charles is more involved than most monarchs, visiting hospitals, the Barber-Surgeon’s Hall, and the College of Physicians to witness surgeries and dissections, and allowing the Banqueting House to be used as a site for anatomical trials upon cows and sheep, trials in which he sometimes takes part. Perhaps the king looks upon Mr. Henley’s misfortune as another opportunity for experiment. Arlington looks seriously annoyed. Most of the courtiers seem to be anticipating some sort of entertainment. What kind of place makes a spectacle out of a man’s
suffering? It reminds her again that she does not really belong here.

Just as she is about to speak, she is aware of a disturbance in her vision, a bright, wavy line that crosses her sight like a flash of lightning. Her head has ached all morning, and now, with the tension of the moment and apprehension of the task ahead, it has grown worse. In her pocket she has a vial of poppy syrup which has become her constant companion, but she will not be able to use it now, not here. She steals a glance at Mr. Henley, and an idea occurs to her. Usually strong drink is all that’s given to a patient under these circumstances, but according to the captain, Mr. Henley is already drunk, and it might be worth a try. With effort, she steadies herself and speaks.

“Mr. Henley’s leg needs to be amputated.” A murmur goes through the small crowd, but the king says nothing. “This is the best time to operate, while the patient is still suffering from the shock of the injury. It will cause him the least amount of additional pain.” She pauses, focusing her thoughts. “Obviously, I do not have any surgical instruments with me. Are there any here at court?”

“You intend to perform the surgery?” Arlington asks, alarmed.

“Mr. Henley will not survive long without it.”

“Have you ever amputated a leg before?”

“No, my lord. But many times I assisted my father, and as you know, he was a skilled surgeon.”

“Excellent,” the king says decisively. “Let’s see what she can do, Arlington. I daresay you’ve never seen a woman cut off a man’s leg before.”

“I’ve never seen a monkey cut out a kidney stone before, but that does not mean I should like to,” Arlington answers sourly, but he calls his footman over and instructs him to go at once to the king’s laboratory and bring back a set of surgical tools.

Henley stirs and moans, as if to remind them that he is still among the living. Hannah imagines that her patient is only slightly less frightened than she is. She has often done the small surgeries—let blood, lance boils, sew up wounds—that most physicians know how to perform. She has amputated frostbitten toes and gangrenous fingers, and she once removed the ear of a man who was troubled with a tumor.
And once, with her father, she helped cut off a man’s badly broken arm. She knows what needs to be done, but she has never before amputated a leg, and certainly not the leg of a man this size. Cutting through muscle and bone, especially bone, is difficult; it requires strength. She is not certain that she can do it.

“Captain, I’ll also need a box of straw to put below the table to catch the blood, some linen to make pledgets and bandages, and a few threaded needles for the ligatures—”

“Your Majesty!” A familiar and unwelcome voice calls from the doorway. Sir Granville Haines enters, followed by another man. Sir Granville instantly spots the king and hurries across the room to make his humble obeisance. “A thousand apologies for not being available the moment you summoned me.”

“I summoned you?”

“I was told you were in need of a court physician, and I—” He catches sight of Hannah. “What is she doing here?”

“I asked her to attend to the coachman,” the king answers.

Sir Granville squints at Henley, not believing what he sees. “But that man needs his leg cut off!”

“Yes, and Mrs. Devlin is going to do it.”

“Majesty, I must protest! With all due respect, sir, all the physicians of your court—nay, London—will be up in arms over such an outrage. Surely you will not endorse this affront to our dignity.”

“From what I hear, Sir Granville, you affront your own dignity every day.”

The courtiers laugh. Sir Granville is not amused. “The College of Physicians will be in an uproar, make no mistake,” he warns.

Lord Arlington cocks his head to speak into the king’s ear. Charles listens for a while, then sighs. “Enough, enough,” he says to Arlington, and then, as if to himself, “as usual, someone has managed to take the fun out of my fun. What do you suggest we do, Sir Granville? There seem to be no other doctors available, and Mrs. Devlin insists that she has the requisite skill. Not to mention that it is the king’s desire to see a woman perform such a feat. Would you deny me my amusements, Sir Granville?”

“Oh no, Majesty, never,” Sir Granville grovels. “I am only thinking of the future of medicine and how to protect our esteemed calling from those who are unworthy.” He looks pointedly at Hannah. “Edward, if you please,” he says after a moment. Sir Granville’s companion comes forward and bows before the king. “Your Majesty, may I present my nephew, the Honorable Dr. Edward Strathern. He is an excellent surgeon recently returned from his medical studies in Leyden. I propose that he perform this operation.”

Edward Strathern bears little resemblance to his uncle, being more soberly attired and modestly bewigged. No ceruse or patches, either, but he has a self-satisfied air that Hannah dislikes at once. She catches a vain glint of gold braid on his cuffs and lace on his cravat. She knows Strathern’s type instantly: a university-trained physician with his head full of a thousand useless theories and no experience in the real world. He’s no older than twenty-eight, she guesses, thirty at most. Now he’s come to court to claw his way up, under the auspices of his well-connected uncle. She grants that he’ll need all the help he can get: even if he’s twice as clever as Sir Granville, he’ll still be an idiot.

The king clears his throat. She supposes he will ask Strathern to list his qualifications. Surely he will require more than Sir Granville’s endorsement. “Dr. Strathern,” the king says, “how did you find the ale in Leyden?”

“Not nearly as good as English ale, Majesty.”

What a ridiculous charade. The man has probably never even held a knife. Surely the king won’t allow him to operate, but she reminds herself that he is called Dr. Strathern and, no matter how accomplished she becomes, she will always be Mrs. Devlin. The footman arrives, out of breath and carrying an elegant carved wood box.

“Your Majesty,” Hannah interrupts, but she receives a warning look from Arlington.

“Of course, of course, we must not delay,” the king says. “I have decided that the two physicians will work together.”

Hannah can hardly conceal her shock and dismay. What if Strathern makes a mess of it? She is even more appalled when she sees the doctor
looking at her in precisely the same manner. She turns away, takes the instrument case from the footman, and opens it. Inside is a double-bladed catlin knife, a scalpel, a lancet, and a fine-toothed saw. The instruments are a bit small for this particular task, but they appear new and well made. She takes out the catlin knife and places the box on the floor near her feet, where she will have easy access to it.