The King's Evil

The ceremony was held at the Banqueting House. Since it was his first visit there, Christopher Redmayne took the opportunity to study what was, architecturally, the most striking part of Whitehall Place. He found it pure joy to view the work of Inigo Jones at such close quarters. Faced with Portland stone and built at a cost of over fifteen thousands pounds, the Banqueting House was the first exclusively Renaissance building in the capital and, in the opinion of most observers, still by far the best. The scale of the interior filled Christopher with awe and his eyes took in every lush detail. He spent so much time gazing up at the ceiling, adorned by a Rubens painting in celebration of the benefits of wise rule, that his neck began to ache. Sheer scale once again hypnotised him.

'Look at the size of those figures,' he urged, pointing upwards.

'I have seen them before,' said his brother airily.

'The cherubs must be almost ten feet high.'

'I prefer my cherubs lying horizontally on a bed.'

'Henry!'

'Pay attention. I brought you here to watch the ceremony and not to goggle at the ceiling like some country bumpkin on his first visit to London.' A loud murmur of interest went up. 'Ah, here is the King.'

Preceded by two priests in their vestments, Charles II entered at the head of a stately procession and made his way up the steps of a small dais to take his seat on the throne. Christopher was at the rear of the hall but, even from that distance, he thought that the King cut an impressive figure. Charles was a tall, dignified man with long, black, curly, shining hair and a black moustache. A leader of fashion, he was dressed in the French style with a long scarlet vest beneath his coat and black shoes offset by scarlet bows. It was the first time that Christopher had ever seen him in person and he was irresistibly reminded of the reward placard which he saw on display after the Battle of Worcester in 1651 and which described the royal fugitive as 'a tall, black man upwards of two yards high'.

There was a swarthiness about the kingly countenance which gave him a slightly foreign air but his bearing was that of a Stuart monarch with a firm belief in the Divine Right of his rule and in the importance of the ceremony in which he was to officiate. The face was striking rather than handsome and it wore such a grave expression that Christopher found it difficult to reconcile the man whom he saw before him with the rampant satyr of common report. A royalist by instinct, he felt a surge of pride in his monarch and admired the graceful ease with which he presided over the assembly.

When the priests had read from the Book of Common Prayer, the King's surgeons brought in the diseased supplicants to present them to him. There were almost five hundred of them in all and they gave off a communal odour of sickness. Some limped, some hobbled, some had to be carried into the royal presence. Most were afflicted with scrofula, the King's Evil, which blighted them with swollen glands and unsightly skin conditions. More advanced cases of the disease could lead to blindness and other frightening disabilities. As they shuffled in strict order towards the dais, the Gospel was read by one of the priests and the stirring words of St Mark echoed through the chamber.

'Afterward he appeared unto the eleven as they sat at meat, and upbraided them with their unbelief and hardness of heart, because they believed not them which had seen him after he was risen. And he said unto them, Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature. He that believeth, and is baptised, shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned. And these signs shall follow them that believe; in my name shall they cast out devils, they shall speak with new tongues. They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them.'

He raised his head to signal the first diseased man forward.

'They shall lay their hands on the sick, and they shall recover.'

As the words were spoken, the King laid both hands fearlessly upon the kneeling supplicant before him then waited for a second person to take his place. Each time a different man, woman or child knelt in hope before him, the King's Touch was accompanied by the same verse from the Gospel.

'They shall lay their hands on the sick and they shall recover.'

Christopher found the whole event profoundly moving. Touched by the simple faith of those who waited so patiently in line, he was full of admiration for the way in which the King conducted himself. Charles did not shrink from even the most repulsive cases. Each one of them was treated with gentle consideration as they knelt to receive the Touch which might yet redeem them from the misery of their illness. When the long queue of people had eventually filed past, the ceremony was only half over. More prayers were offered then a second reading was taken from the Gospel of St John.

'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him_; and without him was not anything made that was made.'

Christopher knew the words by heart and chanted them under his breath in unison with the speaker. Reared in the shadow of Gloucester Cathedral and fed daily on the Gospels, he found them endlessly inspiring though he sensed that his brother, Henry, who was also mouthing the verses beside him, was doing so out of force of habit rather than from any inner conviction.

'That was the true light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world.'

The words were repeated each time one of the supplicants knelt for the second time before the King. Showing no signs of fatigue or loss of dignity, Charles hung an azure ribbon around the necks of all those whom he had touched. From the ribbon was suspended a gold medallion stamped with his image. Christopher was enthralled.

'What is he giving them, Henry?' he whispered.

'A gold angel.'

'Such a generous gift!'

'Too generous,' said the other sharply. 'When the Commons added up the Crown's expenses last year, they found that five thousand pounds had been spent in angel-gold. Five thousand, mark you! Why give them gold, when base metal would suffice? They have been cured by the King's Touch. That should be reward enough.'

'And have they been truly cured?'

'Some of them.'

'What of the others?'

'They lack faith,' said Henry irritably. 'The fault is never in the King but in the wretch who kneels before him. Everything depends on having enough faith in His Majesty.'

'So I see.'

'Let us steal away, Christopher. The smell offends me.'

'But I want to watch the whole ceremony.'

'You have seen all that matters. I brought you here to meet some of those enemies of Sir Ambrose Northcott. They will come out of their holes when the King returns to court. We must be there to study them.'

'You are right, Henry. But I am most grateful to you for bringing me here. It was an extraordinary event. The only surprise is that it takes place in the Banqueting House.'

'Where else?'

'Anywhere but here, I fancy,' opined Christopher. 'This building holds such terrible memories for the King. It was from here that his father stepped out before that bloodthirsty crowd to have his royal head struck from his body. The King must be highly aware of that. It shows great courage on his part to come here for the sake of his subjects' health and to behave with such equanimity.'

'I prefer the King in more humorous vein.'

'You might not do so if you suffered from scrofula.'

'Enough of disease!' said Henry, ushering him out. 'And enough of the execution of a lawful King! What concerns us now is the murder of Sir Ambrose Northcott. Adjourn to Court with me and I will introduce you to some of those politicians who have delighted in his death. Sound them out for yourself, Christopher. But beware of their wiles.'

'I am used to dealing with cunning minds.'

'From whom did you learn that skill?'

'From you, Henry.'

'Me?'

'Where could I find a better tutor?' said his brother with a grin. 'You are the most devious and artful man in the whole of London. You are so steeped in craft and so wedded to guile that even the King's Touch could not cure you.'