Down: Trilogy Box Set (73 page)

Alice sighed. “I’m a building inspector for the council. I was an electrician by trade but my company went bust. I don’t think I’ve got any skills of use here. I haven’t seen any lights or electrical fixtures. I’m divorced, no children any longer and I miss my cats. I hope my neighbor is looking after them.”

“I think you’re wrong about your skills, Alice,” Emily said. “Some of them desperately want to build an electric grid but they’ve got large technology gaps to fill. They do have a limited battery capability which powers telegraph lines in Brittania and some of the continental areas.”

“I’m not an engineer, dear, I’m only an electrician, but I’ll do what I can to help everyone else.”

As the day dragged on, John inspected every inch of the cell looking for escape possibilities but the walls were solid blocks of stone. The floors were hard-packed dirt that might have been amenable to tunneling. But even if they had digging implements it would be a multi-week project, ripe for discovery at any stage. The door to the cell was sturdy but wood was always vulnerable. The problem was the guards stationed on the other side.

The prisoners sat and chatted the hours away, sharing the remaining scraps of food from the morning rations and eyeing the dwindling lamp flame, the only thing keeping them from near-total darkness.

A face appeared in the barred window and the lock mechanism clunked open. In short order, several guards crammed into the cell and one of them pointed a flintlock pistol at John. It was clear they had identified him as the greatest potential threat. John and everyone else stood up.

“You! Move to the corner.”

“Me?” John asked in a way that returned the menace in spades.

“Yes, you.”

“Why?”

A guard with a fancy set of buttons on his tunic said, “Just do it or you’ll get a lead ball in your head. And once we start shooting the rest of you will get it too.”

John looked at Emily. Her pleading expression persuaded him to take a backward step toward the corner.

Fancy buttons then pointed at Emily and said, “You’re to come with me.”

At that John began to choreograph how he could take down the soldiers without getting his people hurt. He’d start by snatching the pistol in a lightning move, shooting fancy buttons then moving with speed to the others. But in tight quarters with so many civilians, it would be a miracle if innocents weren’t shot or stabbed in the melee.

“Where are you taking me?” Emily demanded.

“William Joyce wishes your company,” fancy buttons said with a leering tone.

That was all John needed to hear. He wasn’t going to let Emily be taken.

It was time for violence.

“You men!” a voice boomed from the hall. “Stand aside!”

Fancy buttons recognized the speaker and ordered his guards to make room.

The robed man who swept into the cell with small, quick steps scanned the faces in the cell and settled on John’s.

“John Camp,” he exclaimed. “It
is
you.”

“Mr. Cromwell,” John said, feeling the fighting juices drain away. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you again.”

Thomas Cromwell was an ordinary-sized man but the strength of his presence made him seem larger.

“Why are these people in the dungeons?” he demanded.

Fancy buttons cowered at Cromwell’s fiery countenance and said meekly, “Councilor Joyce so ordered it.”

“Did he now? Well, I’ll deal with him later. It seems that the door between our lands has opened wider, Mr. Camp. All of you, all of you live souls are guests of his majesty, King Henry. You will be given proper accommodation and ample food and drink. Now, Mr. Camp, please come with me. The royal party has just returned from our misadventure in Francia. The king, though indisposed, will want you to explain your actions.”

“I’ll come,” John said, “but I’m not letting this woman out of my sight. Mr. Cromwell, I’d like to introduce Emily Loughty.”

“Ah, the woman you so ardently sought. You have reunited. I see why you were so persistent. I am at your service, my lady.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” she said.

“Hang on a second,” Tony blurted out. “Is this
the
Thomas Cromwell?”

“In the flesh, or at least some infernal version of flesh,” Cromwell replied.

“I just read a good book about you,” Tony gushed. “This is absolutely amazing.”

Cromwell squinted at Tony and said, “’Tis the season for amazement, my good man.”

On entering King Henry’s bedchamber, John and Emily were assaulted by more than the usual aroma of Hellers; there was a sickly sweet smell of infected flesh permeating the room. Henry was propped up on cushions, his face contorted in pain, his cheeks hollow.

Henry managed to raise a hand to point straight at John. “I knew I saw you on the battlefield. I told Cromwell it was you.” He then pointed at the less than pleased Duke of Oxford, his mutton-chopped field commander and said, “You didn’t believe me, Oxford, did you? You insisted that he was lost on the
Hellfire
. But you weren’t lost at sea, were you, John Camp?”

“No Your Majesty, I wasn’t,” John said with smile. “The
Hellfire
lived on but was sunk by the Iberians on our return to England.”

“What of my admiral? What of Norfolk?”

The particulars of the Duke of Norfolk’s demise would not have been well received so John merely said, “He is below the waves, I’m afraid.” Quickly changing the subject, he added, “This is Emily Loughty, the woman I sought.”

John had never seen Emily at a loss for words but standing there in the presence of the most illustrious monarch in England’s history left her struggling to maintain composure. She managed the first curtsy of her life and said, “I am pleased to meet you, Your Majesty.”

“She is indeed a beauty,” Henry said. “The loss of ships and admirals is a mere trifle in comparison. Yet I see you have not succeeded in returning to your own time and place.”

“We were successful,” John said, “but we’ve come back.”

The king and Cromwell both registered their surprise and Henry asked why.

It was Emily who answered. “The passageway between our two worlds has widened, Your Majesty. My own sister and her two young children, among others, were transported here. John and I have returned to save them.”

“How astonishing,” Henry said, wincing in pain again. “If my soldiers only had your courage, well …”

John interrupted. “Solomon Wisdom sold the children to your wife.”

“My wife? The queen?” Henry asked. “I would not know as I have just returned. I have not yet seen her. Cromwell, perhaps you can make inquiries.”

“I will, Your Majesty.”

“Now, I must visit with my physicians,” Henry groaned. “I am most unwell. We will speak again soon. I am displeased by your actions against the crown, Mr. Camp. Very displeased. You must be held accountable.”

John nodded but said, “One of the live men who’s just been released from your jail is a physician. I think he ought to take a look at your wound.”

“How do you know I have a wound?” Henry asked.

“I smelled it across the room.”

The king looked upset then burst into laughter. “Your honesty sets you apart, Mr. Camp. Summon this live physician.”

Martin peeled back the covers to reveal a grotesquely swollen leg. On his way to the king’s bedchamber from the comfortable rooms the South Ockendon travellers had been given, Martin had told John and Emily about his apprehension about seeing, letting alone treating King Henry. Yet when the time came, John could see Martin slotting into a professional groove, gently but impassively lifting the king’s nightdress to expose a purplish, bulging thigh and a deep wound oozing bloody pus.

Emily shuddered and looked away.

“Might I have a bowl of hot water?” Martin asked, searching the faces of the gaggle of retainers circling the bed. “And soap if you have it.”

“What need have you for these?” Henry demanded.

“I would like to wash my hands before I examine you further.”

“Why is that?”

“To cleanse my hands of germs. I don’t wish to make matters worse.”

“Why do you not cleanse your hands before touching my person?” the king demanded of his traditional physicians, archaic looking men with long robes and ample beards.

“If Your Majesty would like, we would be pleased to do so,” one of them answered diplomatically.

In time a basin was produced and a woman brought in a dry cloth filled with irregularly shaped clods of soap. Martin sniffed at them then dug his thumbnail into a lump and declared it suitable. The soap didn’t produce much lather. The king’s physicians watched with a blend of fascination and mirth as he laboriously washed his hands. A clean square of linen was provided for him to dry off and after asking permission he began inspecting and palpating the royal legs. Both calves and thighs had bulging varicosities and pigmented scars from the chronic ulcerations that had plagued Henry in life. This Henry, though still a large man, was half the weight of the behemoth he had been at the time of his death at age fifty-five. In his final years on Earth he had been wheeled around his palaces and hoisted up stairs. The Henry of Hell was in many ways more robust and certainly more mobile. The left thigh had the fresh wound but the left calf had signs of a much older one. When a young man, Henry had suffered a fracture from a jousting accident that had almost claimed his life. For the remainder of his life he suffered an intermittently draining infection of his calf. When Martin inspected the gnarled limb he mumbled to himself that he suspected chronic osteomyelitis, a minor problem compared to the present, acute infection.

When the doctor moved on to a vigorous palpation of his wounded thigh Henry screamed in agony and Martin gave a perfunctory apology.

“What caused the puncture, do you know?” he asked. “Wood? Metal?”

“It was a fragment of iron,” Henry said, using a cloth to wipe the beaded sweat from his forehead. “There were bombs exploding all around our person. I felt pain and saw a piece of the bomb had pierced my leggings and embedded in my flesh. I dug it out with my fingers and continued in battle. After we withdrew from the field the wound was bound and I was well enough. The swelling and pain occurred after some days and my agonies increased during the channel crossing.”

Listening to this, John wondered if he might have thrown the offending hand grenade himself.

“Well, the wound is infected,” Martin said, “and you have a deep abscess within your muscle. It must be drained rather urgently. If you would like me to do this I will need sterilized surgical instruments. Do you have these?”

One of the august physicians leaned in and said, “We have all manner of knives and lances. What is sterilized?”

“Bring me the instruments and I’ll have a look at them. We’ll need to boil them for a good ten minutes then lay them out on a boiled cloth to cool. That will kill the germs on them. Do you understand?”

“Do as he says,” the king told the befuddled physician.

“Do you have anesthesia? Ether perhaps?” Martin asked.

After receiving blank stares Martin explained himself and was told that they could offer the king strong drink and a piece of leather to bite down on. Martin shook his head and asked what era these physicians hailed from. One was from the fifteenth century, the other from the seventeenth. Expecting little he asked about antibiotics. There were no such medicines, he was told so he inquired how they treated these kinds of suppurations.

One of the physicians, the more modern of the two, said, “We have several remedies for fetid and weeping wounds and indeed we have applied these to the king’s person in the past. We use garlic applied to bandages. Honey is an effective agent. Ground flax seeds in milk on occasion.”

The more ancient one added, “I find that a paste of chewed bread and salt when inserted into the wound is an excellent medicament and I would recommend this.”

Martin sought out John and Emily’s eyes to demonstrate what he thought about these folk remedies.

“All right,” he said, “we’ve got a lot of work to do to save this leg and save this man.”

Martin huddled in a corner with John and Emily and asked if they would assist him.

“Tony can’t stand blood. Charlie’s not in a good state of mind. Alice seems tough but I think she ought to stay with Tracy.”

“Of course we’ll help,” Emily said. “What can we do?”

“I’m sure you’ve had your share of experience with battle trauma, John. I’d like you to assist with the surgery. Emily, I’m going to need you to make penicillin.”

“You’re joking, right?” she said.

“No, I’m dead serious. Even with draining the abscess, we’ve got to deal with extensive soft tissue infection which, if left untreated, will lead to a bloodstream infection and death.”

“They don’t die here, doc,” John said.

“Well, something awfully close to death then. We’re either going to need to find some moldy bread which would save us a couple of days, or absent that, we’ll have to leave some bread in a hot, damp place to foster rapid mold formation. We need to replicate Alexander Flemming’s classic work. I vaguely recall an article on survival medicine on how to make penicillin tea. I think we can assume that in a world without antibiotics, the bacteria in his wound will be exquisitely sensitive to penicillin. This will work in our favor. I’ll tell you what I remember of the process then leave it in your hands, Emily. It’s not particle physics but I’m sure you’ll be capable.”

“One batch of penicillin tea, coming up,” she said, straining to smile. “We’ve got to save him. He’s got to make his wife give us the children.”

John refused to let Emily out of his sight so the two of them were taken to the kitchens located in a basement wing of the palace. The ovens were putting out intense heat. Sweating cooks and bakers sniffed and stared at them but were ordered to keep working. When they were shown the bread racks it was immediately clear that it would have been a greater challenge finding loaves free of mold. Emily chose one on a rear shelf which was covered in powdery, blue-green stuff and while she was admiring it, one of the retainers who’d accompanied them downstairs offered to scrape it clean for her.