Strafford realized it was pointless. Best to move on to practical things.
But the king forestalled him there also. “The queen and I will leave London immediately. On the morrow. The city will be a pesthouse within days. We’ll winter over in Oxford.”
“Your Majesty, I beg you to reconsider. England is still in something of a turmoil. Unrest everywhere. In London, I can guarantee your safety. The new troops have been concentrated here—”
“Exactly why there’s a plague!” shrilled the queen. “What were you thinking?”
It was all Strafford could do not to lose his temper completely. What was I thinking, you mindless idiot? I was thinking that every rebellion in England stands or falls on London, in the end. Didn’t you read that also, in those books? Lose London, and soon enough—surely as sunrise—you will lose it all.
Again, there was no point. He tried to plow on. “The Trained Bands have been dispersed. They no longer even dare to come into the streets. In Oxford . . . I cannot be certain what might happen. Besides, there are many who have welcomed the new turn of things, even here in London. If Your Majesties remain, that will signal confidence. With proper procedures—”
A sudden thought came to him. He tried to pursue it, but the king’s petulance drove everything under.
“Not possible! My subjects should have confidence in me because I am king, not because of where I choose to reside or what I choose to do. To claim otherwise borders on treason. The dynasty is what matters, Wentworth. Our very lives are at stake. We leave tomorrow—and that is final.”
The earl bowed his head. “Sire.”
“Not you, of course,” snapped the king. There was more than a trace of spiteful glee in the words. “You will remain in London. Your family also. Since you seem so concerned with providing the people with confidence.” He waved his hand. “Now be off, about your business. The queen and I have much to do, thanks to your negligence.”
By the time Strafford reached his home, his rage had passed, if not his bitterness. He was able to think clearly again.
So be it. I can hardly complain, after all, since it was what I was going to propose to the king himself.
His wife Elizabeth greeted him in the hallway. Nan’s hand was held in hers.
Strafford allowed himself a moment simply for affection, such as his stiff manner could manage. Then, stiffly, gave instructions to his wife.
“Pack up whatever you can. I am moving all of you into the Tower. I’ll remain here, but I want you safe. As safe as London can be, at least.”
“The Tower?” Elizabeth’s face was creased with confusion.
“Trust me, wife. If there’s any place in London that will weather this new storm, it will be the Tower.”
* * *
“Will he be all right?” Andrew asked anxiously. His eyes were fixed on the two-year-old child Rita Simpson had just finished examining. Not far away, leaning against a wall in the cramped quarters of a Yeoman Warder, Andrew’s wife was standing, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her face was pale, perhaps, but composed. If little George died, he would join one of his siblings in the Tower’s graveyard. She still had two others, who seemed healthy. One of them was already seven, and the other five. The odds for them were good now.
“I think so, Andrew,” Rita replied. Then, sternly: “If you follow my instructions. But for the sake of God—and little George—don’t let them bleed him.”
She studied the infant for a moment, her lips pursed. “I don’t know exactly what he’s got, but I’m sure it’s neither plague nor typhus. Could be . . . oh, lots of things. But the deal is, Andrew, even if I can’t cure the disease itself, I can probably treat the symptoms. And with most diseases, it’s usually the symptoms that kill off the kids so quickly.”
“Oh, yes, Lady Stearns. We’ll follow you in this. Don’t much trust the doctors meself.”
“I’m not ‘Lady Stearns,’ ” she snapped. “Dammit, I’m tired of hearing that silly phrase. The name’s Rita Simpson. Mrs. Simpson, if you want to go all formal about it. My mother-in-law’s the lady in the family. Ask her yourself, if you don’t believe me.”