Plague by C.C. Humphreys Page A

concealment?” He had not told her of Finchley, the pamphlet, the reward. Yet she was the only one in London who knew of his other life.
    “I have taken care of that. At least, I can put you close to him.” She bent to her table, picked up another folded paper. “I have been to see His Majesty’s surgeon, Mr. Knight, at the sign of the Hare in Covent Garden.”
    He frowned. “Who are you—my Lady Castlemaine, with a brood of kingly brats—that you can afford such royal fees for your pregnancy?”
    She laughed. “You simpleton. I did not go to consult. I went to get this. It is Mr. Knight’s office that issues these invitations.” She offered the paper. “His Majesty touches for the king’s evil tomorrow at the Banqueting House. The Earl of Rochester never misses it. Says there is no better sport in town than watching the king’s face while the scrofulous bend to kiss the royal arse—sorry, hand!”
    She giggled, as Coke gaped. All knew of this “touching.” Many hundreds would line up in the belief that such direct contact with the king would cure their various ailments, not just the scrofulathat plagued so many. “Lucy, for mercy’s sake. You know that I am trying to keep from view until a certain business is concluded. Yet you would send me to the most public place imaginable?”
    “Aye. Where Rochester will be,” she replied, waving the note. “Besides, don’t you always say that the finest place to hide is in plain sight?”
    “When I am drunk, I may say so,” he said, reluctantly taking the paper. However, a rhythmic tapping at the door prevented further argument
    “ ’Tis Sarah,” Lucy said. “I know her by her knock.”
    As she heard Lucy approach the door, Sarah leaned her head against it and closed her eyes. So tired! Three nights with almost no sleep. She had searched for her husband all day when she was not playing, and each evening until darkness made the streets too dangerous. Three days he had been missing; and though he had on occasion stayed away a night and not sent word, he had never stayed away two. Anger drove her the first day—if he did not attend the theatre, to rehearse and to play, he would soon be replaced. Davenant, the manager of the playhouse, liked John, but he was a man of business as well as the theatre. Yet when Sarah’s search of the usual haunts revealed not a trace of him, anger gave way to fear. Much could befall a man on London’s streets, even one as capable as John Chalker. She felt fear for herself too—she only survived the way she did, as an actress unbeholden to anyone, under his protection.
    As she leaned against the door, she searched for him with her other senses, inherited from her mother, who’d had them from hers. Yesterday she had burned paper with Hebrew words written on it, chanting them as she did. She had sought her husband in coffee grounds and in water poured onto a concave mirror. Nowshe simply looked out into the world through her closed eyes. She hoped that it was her mother’s other sight and not her fear that had him living still. Alive and indeed not far away. But where was he?
    The opening door caused her to stumble. “Oh, my dear,” she began, then stopped when she saw that Lucy was not alone. A tall man was with her. He had long black hair—his own—curling onto wide shoulders, silver wound through it like filigree. He had grey eyes and a moustache, mainly black, which he was smoothing down with thumb and forefinger. His clothes were simple, dark, well made if not of the latest fashion, yet not so very far behind it that he would stand out. He held an uncocked, unadorned hat in one hand, his other resting on the pommel of a sword. Boots that rose to his knee appeared long worn.
    “Sarah, you poor child, come in. Oh, and you must meet my Captain Coke.”
    The man bowed, his hat going to the side in a gesture somewhat older than the age demanded. “Mrs. Chalker. I have the advantage of you for I have seen you many times