Bartholomew Fair

by Ann Swinfen

A groan sounded from an alley to our right. In the dark, we fell over Lewen. I reached out and felt for him and my hand came away sticky.

  More of Berden’s men were running up now. One began striking at his flint until he was able to light a stump of candle. In its light we could see Lewen sprawled in the filth of the alley, blood pouring from his side.

  ‘Hold that closer,’ I snapped. ‘I’m a physician.’

  I knelt down beside the injured man.

  ‘We need to staunch the bleeding,’ I said, cursing myself for having left my satchel behind in Phelippes office.

  I looked up at the other men standing around. Berden had disappeared.

  ‘Help me tear a strip off his shirt to use as a bandage.’ I said.

  Two of the men knelt on the other side of Lewen and between us we managed to rip off a portion of his shirt tail. I wrapped it tightly round his body and knotted it off.

  ‘Carry him back to Seething Lane,’ I said. ‘As quickly as you can. I’ll follow. Jesu, where is Berden?’

  ‘Here.’ He loomed up out of the dark. ‘There must have been more of that soldier’s fellows waiting for him here in the alley. When they saw Lewen, they went for him. Has he said anything?’

  I shook my head. ‘He’s unconscious. He’s already lost a lot of blood. I will need to see to him at once. We need to go back.’

  We turned to follow the others.

  ‘Damnation!’ Berden said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Berden and I reached Sir Francis’s house, the men had already carried Lewen up to Phelippes’s office, where he was now lying on a flock mattress in front of the fire, probably the same mattress I had slept on the other night. Someone had stirred up the fire, which I was glad of, for I feared that Lewen might be chilled from shock and loss of blood.

  The room was crowded with men, all staring down helplessly at Lewen, even Sir Francis, who must have been roused from his bed by the disturbance, and was sitting in one of the chairs, clad in his dark blue house gown and looking almost as pale as Lewen.

  I fetched my satchel from where it hung on the back of my chair and knelt down beside the injured man. While we had been quartering the city earlier in the day, I had taken the opportunity to replace some of the simple medicines I normally carried with me, together with needles and thread and fresh bandages. It seemed I would need them sooner than I had expected.

  The temporary bandage was already saturated with blood and more was seeping through it, staining the mattress. I asked two of Berden’s men to raise Lewen’s shoulders so that I could cut it away and peel back what was left of his shirt to reveal the wound. It was a deep thrust, probably from a dagger or worse, for it was wide enough to have been a sword.

  ‘How bad is it?’ Berden had knelt down beside me.

  ‘Nasty. I will need water,’ I said, without looking up. I heard Phelippes call for a servant. A bowl of water came quickly. The whole household must have been roused.

  I tore off a clean end of the discarded bandage and used it to wipe away the blood and dirt from the wound. It had been filthy in the alley where he had lain. I hoped no noxious substance had already entered the wound. The blood was flowing a little less freely now. I probed gently around it, and nodded.

  ‘He’s had the luck of the Devil,’ I said. ‘The blade hit a rib. Otherwise it would have penetrated his lung. I will need to stitch this.’

  One of the men holding Lewen’s shoulders gulped and turned somewhat green. I took pity on him.

  ‘You need not watch,’ I said. ‘Lay him down and turn him on his right side, so I can reach this better. Then I won’t need your help any more.’

  They did as I asked, then drew back. I glanced along my shoulder at Berden.

  ‘I won’t need your men any longer, unless you do.’

  He shook his head. ‘We were all too far away to see what happened. Back you go, lads. Keep a watch on that house and report any activity, but for Jesu’s sake, keep out of sight!’

  I heard the men leaving, but I was occupied in cutting lengths of thread and threading a suturing needle.

  ‘Can I help?’ Berden said.

  ‘Just hold him steady for me. If he wakes, you will need to hold him down, for this will hurt.’

  I began to put in the stitches as swiftly as possible. I had been nearly asleep before the soldier arrived at the Italian’s house, but now I was as wide awake as if it were midday. Luckily the wound was fairly narrow, despite being deep, for Lewen began to stir as I put in the last stitch. I cut the thread, then salved the wound generously.

  ‘I will need to bandage this now,’ I said. ‘Can you lift his upper body, so I can reach round his chest?’

  By the time I was stitching the end of the bandage in place to hold it firm, Lewen’s eyelids were flickering and he gave a sharp moan.

  ‘I have some poppy syrup here to ease the pain,’ I said. ‘I need some wine to mix it in.’

  A hand passed me a cup of strong red wine. It was Phelippes. Berden propped the man up against his shoulder and I held the cup to his lips. He drank thirstily, then we laid him back on the mattress. His eyes were open now.

  ‘Can you tell us what happened, Tom?’ Berden asked.

  ‘I’m sorry, Master Berden,’ the man whispered. ‘I’ve never been caught like that before.’

  ‘Not your fault, Tom. We should have reckoned there might be more of them hanging about, even if only one went to the house.’

  ‘I’ve lost you the chance to find where they’re lodging.’

  The poor fellow seemed more concerned about that than about his injury.

  ‘Don’t worry about that, we’ll find them. How many were waiting in the alley?’

  ‘I couldn’t rightly see. It was dark as the Devil’s pit, sir. But I think there was five or six.’

  I sat back on my heels. ‘Then you were lucky to get away alive,’ I said. ‘No blame to you.’

  ‘Is that the doctor?’ His eyes were shut and his voice was growing weaker.

  ‘Aye, and you’re a lucky fellow,’ I said. ‘You’ll be sore and weak for a while, but you’ll heal. They just missed your lung.’

  I hoped I spoke the truth. I had not liked the filth in that alley.

  ‘Thanks, doctor,’ he whispered.

  ‘Get some rest now,’ I said. ‘I have given you something to ease the pain.’

  He was already drifting into sleep. Berden and I got to our feet and I threw the soiled bandage on to the fire, where it flared suddenly, then crumbled.

  ‘Probably poor Lewen’s only shirt,’ Berden said ruefully.

  ‘We’ll get him a new one.’ It was Sir Francis who spoke. ‘I do not often see what you and your men must endure, Nick. It is a salutary lesson for me. Thomas and I sit here in our safe offices and send you out against these dangerous men. I am ashamed that this fellow has been so badly injured in my service.’

  I looked up from repacking my satchel. ‘The best thing you can do for him is to keep him here till he is recovered. He should not be moved tonight. What I have given him will help him sleep. Let him rest there near the fire, with a couple of blankets over him. Tomorrow perhaps he can be moved to a bed in the servants’ quarters. What he needs is rest and feeding up.’ I had been shocked at the man’s emaciated body when we had lifted his shirt to reveal the wound. ‘Of course, he should have a new shirt as well. Better, he should have two, to change about, so he does not wear soiled linen near that wound while it heals.’

  Walsingham looked at me with amusement. ‘He shall have everything you order, doctor.’

  I coloured, realising I had spoken to him as authoritatively as I would speak to the family of one of my pauper patients at St Bartholomew’s, but before I could apologise, Sir Francis got to his feet, raising himself by pushing on the arms of the chair.

  ‘We are very fortune to have you with us, Kit,’ he said softly. ‘I think you saved that man’s life tonight.’

  When he was gone, Phelippes, Berden and I
looked at each other. Berden sighed.

  ‘I am sorry. We bungled that. I am afraid we have lost the chance of finding the soldiers’ hiding place. They have been warned off now.’

  ‘Do you think that they understood that Lewen was following them?’ I asked. ‘There was no reason they should think he was – well – official. He does not look it. They may have thought he was just a street pad or cutpurse.’

  ‘That is one reason why he is generally so useful,’ Berden said gloomily. ‘Not this time, though.’

  ‘I think Kit may be right,’ Phelippes said. ‘There would be no reason to connect your man with this office. Still, we must keep up the watch on that house, in case we have another opportunity. Now you’d both best be off. It will be morning soon.’

  I shook my head. ‘You go, Berden, you’ve hardly slept these last few days. If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll stay with my patient. I want to be here when he wakes.’

  So I spent another night at the office, though this time I slept in a chair.

  When I woke to the first light coming through the window behind Phelippes’s desk, I found I was alone in the room with the injured man. I walked over and looked down at him. He was still lying on his right side and the bandage was only slightly stained with blood, but not seriously. I took it as a sign that the worst of the bleeding had stopped. He appeared to be sleeping normally, but I laid my hand carefully on his brow, not to wake him. There was no sign of a fever. The risk from the filth of the alley, however, could not be reckoned over yet. Still, we had brought him to warmth and care as swiftly as possible. I hoped that, despite his undernourished body, he was resilient, as the street lads of London often are. He could not be more than twenty, scarcely older than I was. I suspected he was one of those who had grown up in the gutters of the City, and who had survived by stealing and begging. Those who did reach adulthood made small men like Lewen, but tough, for all that. Falling in with Berden and proving of use to him must have given him some hope in life.

  The door opened and Phelippes came in, followed by one of the men servants carrying a tray.

  ‘How is the poor fellow this morning?’ Phelippes asked.

  ‘He has had a good night and the wound has stopped bleeding. As I said last night – or was it this morning? – what he needs now is rest and good food.’

  ‘From what Berden has told me about this fellow before, this is probably the first time he has slept on a mattress. He lives in the streets.’

  ‘I thought he had that look about him,’ I said. ‘Is that breakfast? I am starving!’

  ‘Aye. I had them bring enough for three, but had we better let him sleep?’

  ‘For the moment.’

  I cleared a space on my table for the servant to lay out the food – hot porridge, fresh bread, butter, cheeses, sliced ham and hot spiced ale.

  When he was gone, I grinned at Phelippes. ‘The Walsingham family is fond of porridge, I believe.’

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘It is not my favourite food. Fare for invalids and children. Is there any honey?’

  ‘Aye.’ I pushed the pot towards him. ‘You may smother it with this.’

  We both pulled up chairs and tucked in. Despite his complaints, Phelippes ate his porridge. For myself, I had come to quite like the stuff since coming to England. When I was a half starved waif, Sara had fed me up on it. I was glad of the spiced ale too. There was a nip in the air this morning and the fire had died down, though the servant had thrown on a couple of logs before leaving us.

  ‘What do you want me to do today?’ I asked, after I had eaten several slices of ham and some of the bread (which was very good). ‘Shall I go back with Nick to watch the Italian merchant’s house?’

  ‘Nay, there are enough there already, now that Nick has called in his other men. Besides, I don’t want you there in daylight, in case you are recognised.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I went to speak to Sir Francis before I sent for breakfast. He has suggested that this morning would be a good time for you to go to St Thomas’s to report to the deputy superintendent, as you were requested to do.’

  He looked at me critically.

  ‘You had better go home and change first. You’ll hardly be a credit to Sir Francis, looking like that.’

  I had not thought about my clothes, but now, looking down at myself, I realised that I had knelt in the dirt of the alleyway and my hose were smeared with unnameable filth. There were bloodstains on the sleeves of my shirt and on the bottom edge of my doublet. Blood stains are the very devil to wash out, unless you deal with them quickly, as I knew all too well from long experience. Joan was always moaning at my father and me about them. I hoped there was a servant in the Lopez household who could deal with these. In the past Ruy’s clothes must sometimes have been stained, though these days his doctoring consisted more of administering soothing potions and listening to his rich patients’ worries, rather than the messy business of physicking wounds and injuries. It was probably years since anyone had vomited over him.

  ‘Aye,’ I said with a grin, ‘I would not wish to give my new employers the wrong impression. Clean and smart, that’s the look I must aim for.’

  ‘To save time, Sir Francis says you should ride home and then over to Southwark. You may take that horse. Horace.’

  ‘Hector,’ I said automatically, rising to the bait as usual. ‘I will just wait until Lewen wakes, then I’ll go my ways.’

  ‘You should be back here by the afternoon. We may know better what is happening by then.’

  ‘If there is any sign of the soldiers around the merchant’s house, it will mean they think that their encounter with Lewen was just some street attack.’

  ‘Aye.’ He rubbed his chin. Like Berden, he had developed a growth of stubble. ‘I wonder whether they will go back to see if there is a body in the alley.’

  ‘They might. They may be worrying about it.’

  ‘It is curious,’ he said, ‘how often a criminal cannot keep away from the scene of some misdeed or crime.’

  ‘Aye,’ I said, ‘and if they do come back, they could be followed again.’

  ‘Much more difficult in the daylight.’

  At that moment Lewen yawned, groaned, started to turn over, and yelped with pain. I went to see to him.

  An hour later I was once again riding Hector over the Bridge to Southwark, feeling a good deal more nervous than when I was on my way to Barn Elms. I was freshly dressed from head to heel, and Sara had even found an old physician’s gown and cap of Ruy’s for me to wear. I swallowed my pride and wore them. Ruy might consider them old, but they seemed perfectly sound to me, being made of sturdy wool cloth of a very fine weave. Even when he had occupied a humble position at St Bartholomew’s, as did my father later, he had dressed well. Now, of course, his physician’s gown was of best black velvet, for he could hardly attend on such clients as the Queen, Dom Antonio and the Earl of Essex in anything of poorer quality. When in court, one must dress appropriately. Or so he told us.

  St Thomas’s hospital lay a little south of the Southwark end of the Bridge, and as I dismounted at the gatehouse, I recalled what I could of its history, in case I should be quizzed about it, expected to know where it was I would be working. Like St Bartholomew’s, it was very ancient, originally part of a monastic foundation established to care for the sick and homeless poor. No one knew what its original name had been, but the monastery had been named for Thomas à Becket after he was canonised, and was run by an order of Augustinian monks and nuns. Some time in the last century, the Lord Mayor, Richard Whittington, had endowed a lying-in ward for unmarried mothers, an extraordinary idea at the time, and still remarkable, though given the proximity of the stews of Southwark, no doubt it was kept busy.

  Then, when the monasteries were brought down by the Queen’s father, this hospital, like Barts, was abandoned, and the poor of both London and Southwark were left to die uncared for in the gutter. A number of compassionate and wealthy citizens had tri
ed to gain possession of both hospitals, but had been refused by Henry. His son, Edward, was more sympathetic and the hospitals were restored, with superintendents and governors, and local women replacing the nursing nuns. St Thomas’s had, however, been rededicated to St Thomas the Apostle, since Becket’s reputation for opposing the monarchy did not find favour with the Tudors.

  I could see that St Thomas’s was as busy as Barts, even in summer, and even in a year when we had been mostly spared the plague. There was a bustle of carts arriving with goods, servants and nursing sisters crossing the courtyard, and long lines of sick people making their way to a small door at one side, where I supposed the almoner must handle admissions. Some were able to walk, but others had been carried here on trestles by their friends. By and large, they looked even more threadbare and destitute than the poor folk who came to us at St Bartholomew’s.

  I managed to hail a groom, who took Hector in charge and pointed to the stables where I would find him when I had finished my business here. Only once had I been to St Thomas’s before, that time my father and I had brought the last few convalescing sailors here, sailors we had been treating aboard ship at Deptford after the defeat of the Spanish Armada. As we had done then, I entered by the main door and looked about me, wondering where I would find the deputy superintendent. As at Barts, he would be the one responsible for the day-to-day organisation and running of the hospital. The role of superintendent was largely honorary, carrying a salary, which was useful for rewarding some friend of the governors. According to the letter Sir Francis had given me, the deputy’s name was Roger Ailmer.

  ‘Your pardon, mistress.’ I accosted a large capable-seeming woman, who looked as though she might be one of those in charge of the sisters. ‘I am looking for Master Ailmer.’

  She sized me up quickly, taking note of my physician’s robe and cap.

  ‘This way, sir, I will take you to him myself.’ She began walking briskly along a corridor and I followed. ‘Would you be the new physician that’s starting soon?’

  ‘I am.’ I bowed. ‘Dr Christoval Alvarez.’