The Siren Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's by Fiona Buckley Page B
Authors: Fiona Buckley
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and dumped on the kitchen table too, and before you know where you are, a bad bird’s found its way into the stew. I didn’t have much stew myself,” he added. “There was salmon and I like that better. And I don’t want to hear any nonsense about curses, either!”
Mistress Dalton groaned but whether in agreement or otherwise, it was impossible to tell. Gladys would have a supporter in Conley, though. “We’ll do what we can, mistress,” Hugh said, and rushed us all out again and on to the kitchen.
Here we found the four scullions and Brockley. The fire had been banked but Brockley had livened it up and set water to warm. One of the scullions—in fact, it was young Walt—had recovered enough to stumble about, getting out salt, trays, cups, and jugs, and Brockley was just coming back from the well with a fresh pail of water. We had dosed the remaining three scullions and Mistress Dalton, and Brockley was looking after the scullions while the rest of us were clattering beakers and jugs onto trays to take upstairs, when Edmund Dean arrived, his hair on end and a brocade bedgown tied anyhow round his middle.
“This is appalling! The racket woke the duke and all of us secretaries. I’ve just been to the servants’ rooms. They said you were here, getting remedies together. Julius Gale needs them too—he’s ill as well!”
“Badly?” I asked.
“Yes, very badly! I’ve just been to his room—it’s the people who ate supper down here who are ill, and he was among them—and if we don’t do something quickly, I think he’s so sick, he could die!”
“Is he vomiting?” I asked in practical tones.
“No. He keeps trying but he can’t. He’s sweating, holding his stomach, and throwing himself about. He’s only half conscious! He can’t purge himself either.”
“Dale and I will see that the servants upstairs are looked after. We know what to do,” said Sybil briskly. “Leave it to us, Mistress Stannard. You go and see to Gale.”
“Thank you, Sybil. Meg, go and fetch Gladys. She’s got the makings of medicines with her. Master Gale may need a purge.”
“Not Gladys!” said Dean. “She cursed all the servants and Gale as well and it could be that . . . ”
“Nonsense,” said Hugh. “They’ve eaten chicken that’s been kept too long, that’s all. Gladys is clever at physicking people. Go, Meg!”
Meg sped off. Sybil and Dale each seized a loaded tray and made off up the stairs in her wake. Dean stood glaring at us.
“I don’t agree with this!” he said angrily. “That Gladys creature shouldn’t go near any of the sick. If harm comes of it, it’s on your heads.”
“I daresay our heads will survive,” snapped Hugh. “Are you ready, Ursula? We’d better hurry.”
5
The Significance of a Cipher
Hugh’s stiff joints were painful for him on stairs, and Dean took over his tray, which held a goblet of salt water and a basin. Then, however, we had to make what haste we could, to keep up as Dean led the way back to the passageway past our room, on across the head of the main stairs and into another wing with a further wide corridor, where Higford, the senior secretary, now appeared, holding up a branched candlestick with four lit candles in it and looking anxious.
“Thank God you’re here. The duke is awake; he knows Gale is ill and he values Gale highly. Come in, quickly!”
We crowded into Gale’s room on Higford’s heels. There was just one bed; the messenger had been given a small guest chamber to himself. The only light came from Higford’s candlestick and a second, similar one on a table, and the glow of a dying fire. Much of the room was in shadow, and the shadows were full of anguish. Master Gale was very sick indeed and his pain was almost palpable.
Hugh went to fetch more light. I put my arm round the patient, placed the basin before him and set about dosing him with the salt water. A few minutes later, Gladys arrived with a nasty-smelling herbal purge. We set
Mistress Dalton groaned but whether in agreement or otherwise, it was impossible to tell. Gladys would have a supporter in Conley, though. “We’ll do what we can, mistress,” Hugh said, and rushed us all out again and on to the kitchen.
Here we found the four scullions and Brockley. The fire had been banked but Brockley had livened it up and set water to warm. One of the scullions—in fact, it was young Walt—had recovered enough to stumble about, getting out salt, trays, cups, and jugs, and Brockley was just coming back from the well with a fresh pail of water. We had dosed the remaining three scullions and Mistress Dalton, and Brockley was looking after the scullions while the rest of us were clattering beakers and jugs onto trays to take upstairs, when Edmund Dean arrived, his hair on end and a brocade bedgown tied anyhow round his middle.
“This is appalling! The racket woke the duke and all of us secretaries. I’ve just been to the servants’ rooms. They said you were here, getting remedies together. Julius Gale needs them too—he’s ill as well!”
“Badly?” I asked.
“Yes, very badly! I’ve just been to his room—it’s the people who ate supper down here who are ill, and he was among them—and if we don’t do something quickly, I think he’s so sick, he could die!”
“Is he vomiting?” I asked in practical tones.
“No. He keeps trying but he can’t. He’s sweating, holding his stomach, and throwing himself about. He’s only half conscious! He can’t purge himself either.”
“Dale and I will see that the servants upstairs are looked after. We know what to do,” said Sybil briskly. “Leave it to us, Mistress Stannard. You go and see to Gale.”
“Thank you, Sybil. Meg, go and fetch Gladys. She’s got the makings of medicines with her. Master Gale may need a purge.”
“Not Gladys!” said Dean. “She cursed all the servants and Gale as well and it could be that . . . ”
“Nonsense,” said Hugh. “They’ve eaten chicken that’s been kept too long, that’s all. Gladys is clever at physicking people. Go, Meg!”
Meg sped off. Sybil and Dale each seized a loaded tray and made off up the stairs in her wake. Dean stood glaring at us.
“I don’t agree with this!” he said angrily. “That Gladys creature shouldn’t go near any of the sick. If harm comes of it, it’s on your heads.”
“I daresay our heads will survive,” snapped Hugh. “Are you ready, Ursula? We’d better hurry.”
5
The Significance of a Cipher
Hugh’s stiff joints were painful for him on stairs, and Dean took over his tray, which held a goblet of salt water and a basin. Then, however, we had to make what haste we could, to keep up as Dean led the way back to the passageway past our room, on across the head of the main stairs and into another wing with a further wide corridor, where Higford, the senior secretary, now appeared, holding up a branched candlestick with four lit candles in it and looking anxious.
“Thank God you’re here. The duke is awake; he knows Gale is ill and he values Gale highly. Come in, quickly!”
We crowded into Gale’s room on Higford’s heels. There was just one bed; the messenger had been given a small guest chamber to himself. The only light came from Higford’s candlestick and a second, similar one on a table, and the glow of a dying fire. Much of the room was in shadow, and the shadows were full of anguish. Master Gale was very sick indeed and his pain was almost palpable.
Hugh went to fetch more light. I put my arm round the patient, placed the basin before him and set about dosing him with the salt water. A few minutes later, Gladys arrived with a nasty-smelling herbal purge. We set
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