The Lady's Slipper by Deborah Swift

explaining his skin condition and asking if she knew of anything that might ease it. She must have sent the salve by the king’s post for it to have arrived so quickly.
    He looked at the note again–he must look up the ingredients in Gargrave’s Herbal . She asked for a payment of a half-shilling, and that he should have one of his servants deliver the coinage by hand. Evidently she did not wish to chance the post with such a large sum.
    He glanced down at his body. It had been the same since childhood, red and itching, with inflamed patches of skin he always wanted to scratch. Fortunately his face and neck were usually clear, but the backs of his hands were often pocked with scabs the size of a penny. When these patches appeared he had become adept at hiding them under gloves. He never took off his shirt, for his chest was scarred and scaly like reptile skin, and he was fortunate in that the fashion was for high necks and lace cravats.
    He looked down at himself with loathing, and lowered his long limbs into the wooden hipbath. The water was silky against his skin. He exhaled audibly and sank into the warm water. He felt comfortable for the first time in two months.
    With care, he poured more hot water from the jug. The steam filled his nostrils and his limbs seemed to melt into the water. His mind drifted back to a time when he was about three years old. He was lying in a wooden cot, whimpering for his mother. He could see the turned wooden rails magnified on the walls into thick black hourglasses by the light from the window. His skin was red and sore but he couldn’t resist the urge to scratch. He scratched until his nails were thick with blood.
    His mother had wept at the sight and talked to him in her soothing voice. He heard again the noise of her wringing out a cloth. He saw in his mind’s eye her white hands on the muslin, cold as a fall of snow. Afterwards she had given him little cotton gloves to stop him from wounding himself, and when he was too fretful to sleep she had put Madeira in his milksops and stroked his burning forehead with her smooth fingers.
    Only his mother had understood exactly how much pain the condition gave him. When he was a child she had cared for his scaly body herself, despite his father’s insistence she hire a wet nurse, for his father had been wary of his sickly son. His mother knew all too well that Geoffrey would be taunted, that they would laugh at him. People didn’t understand, they would shun him and make his life wretched if they knew, and she was prepared to trust no one else with her only son. Over his childhood years she had impressed upon him the need to keep his skin hidden and protected, and she had tried many unguents, poultices and potions. All to no avail.
    It was this that had led to his interest in herbs and plants, and lately in science. He was half hoping that one day he would find a salve or a secret, a pill or a potion that would heal his condition. In the meantime, he busied himself with his trade and scientific interests, for the more occupied he was, the less the disease bothered him.
    He loved his study, the carved oak panelling, the paraphernalia of stone mortars, iron pestles, distilling glasses and crucibles. On his desk, he cared not that his confusion of papers was stained with powdered mineral matter, sediment from dripping sieves and numerous tell-tale wine-glass rings. Alcohol in large quantities had been the only thing so far to alleviate the torture of the continual itching. Over the years he thought he had resigned himself to the condition, but there were some days when he was driven mad on all sides.
    He poured more warm water from the jug and gently soaped himself all over. After his bath, he opened the little jar and applied some of the tincture. It was pale green and slimy, and smelt of seaweed. The balm did feel remarkably soothing. Perhaps this cunning woman really was as knowledgeable as the master said. A small hope budded, a momentary