by Ann Swinfen
He groaned. ‘Do what you must. I do not think I can survive this.’
That was probably true. It was food poisoning which had laid Robert Poley low, but Sir Jonathan must have been a good thirty years older, and slightly built. Food poisoning can carry off such a man in hours.
Peter returned with what I needed, and I set to work. At one point I saw the anxious faces of the other governors peering in the door, but there was no time for explanations. When it was all over, I washed my own hands, then Sir Jonathan’s hands and face, and drew a blanket over him.
‘You must rest now. Nothing to eat or drink for the next two days except boiled water or small ale and, tomorrow, dry bread. Sleep as much as you can. It would be best if you spent the night here, but in the morning we can have you carried home in a litter.’
He nodded and gave me a weak smile. ‘Thank you, Dr Alvarez. I shall not forget this.’
‘I’m glad I was able to help,’ I said. ‘And my assistant, Peter Lambert.’
‘Thank you as well, Master Lambert.’
He closed his eyes and fell immediately asleep.
I grinned at Peter and nodded towards the doorway.
‘Well!’ I said, closing the door behind me.
‘Well, indeed.’ He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. ‘I wouldn’t like to go through that again.’
‘Not with a governor of the hospital, anyway.’
‘No.’
‘I must find the others and tell them that all is well with Sir Jonathan,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘I’ll check the wards for you until you are free.’
I knocked on the door of the governors’ meeting room and was bidden in. Five faces wearing identical worried looks turned toward me.
‘He is well,’ I said, leaning my arms on the edge of the table. I was suddenly very tired. I had been spurred on by the urgency of the case, but now I realised that I had been frightened. If one of the governors of the hospital had died under my hands, what would have become of my father and me?
‘Sit down, Dr Alvarez.’ One of the men pulled out a chair for me, another poured me a glass of wine.
‘It was food poisoning,’ I said. ‘In a man of his age and build it could have been fatal if it had not been treated at once. I am afraid I had to purge him, so he will be weak for some days, but should gradually regain his strength.’
I took a sip of the wine. If it came to that, I needed to regain my own strength.
‘We are very grateful for your prompt action,’ said the man who had poured the wine.
‘I have dealt with food poisoning before,’ I said. ‘I knew what to do.’
‘It seems,’ said one of the others, ‘that it was quite safe to leave the hospital in your care. We have taken note of your prompt and efficient action and will be reporting it to the hospital superintendant.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, and drained the last of the wine. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I must go back to the rest of my patients.’
‘Of course, of course.’
They saw me off with more murmured thanks. Once out in the corridor with the door closed, I leaned against the wall and shut my eyes. By the grace of God, the attack had been something I could cope with. There was a flutter of panic under my breastbone. What if I had not been able to cope? I pressed the thought down, took a deep breath, and went back to my patients.
It was dusk by the time my father returned to the hospital and I was just making my final checks before going home. He was preoccupied with his attendance on Lord Burghley.
‘My lord suffers acute pain with the gout and there is not a great deal we can do to help, apart from treating it with colchicum, which should provide some relief. I gave him a mild potion of poppy syrup, but he will not take strong medicine to ease the pain in case it should make him drowsy and unable to carry out the Queen’s work. As her closest advisor, he carries a great burden. It is a matter of delicate balance, giving him enough, but not too much. I fear he was still in considerable pain when I left. Gout is a strange affliction, which we do not wholly understand. Many learned men believe that it is caused by excessive drinking of strong red wine, yet I have known it in men who are abstemious in their consumption of wine.’ He shook his head. ‘It appears to afflict men more than women, yet some women suffer from it.’
I packed my satchel and picked it up.
‘Are you ready, Kit? Let us go home.’
As we walked out of the gate, the gatekeeper smiled at me and gave a little bow, something he had never done before, but I think my father did not notice.
‘And did you have a quiet day at the hospital?’ he asked.
‘Mostly quiet, yes.’ I paused, choosing my moment. ‘Except that I had to purge Sir Jonathan Langley for food poisoning.’
He stopped and looked at me in astonishment.
The telling of that took us all the way home.
‘Well,’ he said, as we sat down to the fried collops and celery Joan had prepared for us, ‘it seems you saved the day at the hospital. Perhaps I can retire now.’
I laughed and laid my hand on his arm. ‘Not for a few years yet, Father.’
Despite the demands of my work at the hospital, Phelippes sent word the following week that he would need me again. Intercepted documents were piling up once more and it was too much for him to manage on his own, in the time available. The first afternoon I went as I was bidden, but I had a suggestion to make.
After I had explained the situation at the hospital, with Dr Stevens still bed-ridden, I said, ‘I cannot come every afternoon, Master Phelippes. There is too much work at the hospital. I could come in the evenings, just until this present crisis is past. Would that suit you?’
He grumbled a little at this, but finally agreed that I could come around five o’clock every day and stay until ten. It seemed that the projection devised by Phelippes and Sir Francis, using the courier Gifford to carry letters from the French embassy to the Scottish queen at Chartley, was more successful than even they had hoped. The queen and her attendants were convinced that the method of sealing letters wrapped in waterproof leather within the bung of a beer barrel was their own clever and secret plan, so that more and more open and revealing correspondence was passing that way, carried to and from Chartley on the brewer’s cart.
‘You did good work in Surrey, Kit,’ Phelippes said, when we were working together on one of these evenings. ‘We have allowed that courier route to stay open, from the Fitzgerald house to the embassy. Then Gifford collects those letters along with the others and takes them on to Chartley.’
So the Fitzgeralds had been left undisturbed for the time being. I found I was glad. It did not seem that they were themselves part of a treasonous plot, but merely allowed their house to be used as a staging post. In the end, though, they might be rounded up.
‘What of the letters from Hartwell Hall that were going directly to Sir Anthony Babington and not to the embassy? Are you not intercepting those?’
‘Indeed, we are doing so,’ Phelippes said. ‘We have recently placed an informant in Babington’s circle who is copying those letters for us. And he is also urging Babington to send his own letters through the embassy, by the secure route. He takes the letters to the embassy and they are then passed to Gifford.’
I remembered a previous conversation we had had about an informant infiltrated into Babington’s circle.
‘Is it Poley?’ I asked cautiously. ‘The man on such friendly terms with Babington?’
‘Yes.’ He gave me a shrewd look. ‘I know you do not like Poley. Yet it was he who introduced you here.’
‘That was not my doing,’ I said. ‘I believe Thomas Harriot recommended me for the work. You are right. I do not like Poley and I do not trust him. What was he doing at Hartwell Hall? That was no plan of Sir Francis’s, I suspect.’
‘No, it was not. It came as a surprise to us both that you had seen him there.’
Phelippes leaned back in his chair. ‘You have
to understand, Kit, that the informants we use are a strange group of men. A few – a very few – are honest and loyal and would give their lives for the Queen. Others do the work out of hatred for Catholics or for the French or for the Spanish. Some are double agents, playing one side against the other and must be constantly watched, never trusted too much. Many are masterless men, men with no calling and no income, who take up the work merely for money. They too may become double agents, if the profits are large enough. He who pays most can buy their services. But few if none will play by the rules. They take risks all the time and sometimes will go off pursuing a hare of their own instead of their legitimate quarry.’
He cleared his throat and shuffled the papers on his desk.
‘That may have been why Poley was down in Surrey, up to some game of his own. Or it might have been part of the disguise he assumes as a Catholic sympathiser. That is what gained him entrance into the Babington crowd. Or then again, he may have been acting as an agent for the conspirators, not merely in pretence but in reality. Betraying us. I too do not like or trust Poley, but he is useful to us because of the way he is able to pass himself off as one of the conspirators, and play the amiable companion to these misguided and foolish young men.’
‘I have not found him amiable,’ I muttered.
‘No. I do not suppose you have. He is amiable only to those he hopes to use or who will do him favours. Otherwise he can be ruthless. Vicious, even. I do not need to tell you to watch your step with him.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You do not.’
We resumed our work then and continued until late, when I made my way through the dark streets to the far side of London. Every night I was afraid. Sometimes there seemed to be footsteps following me. And the sort of people who slipped through the streets after curfew were always disreputable, and often dangerous. Phelippes had issued me with a pass to show to any constable of the Watch, if I should be stopped for being abroad after curfew, but it was no protection against cutthroats and rufflers. I often thought, as I trod those streets with my heart in my mouth, how shocked both Phelippes and Sir Francis would be if they knew it was a girl they were sending out into the streets late at night, to walk from Seething Lane all the way to Smithfield.
As I was walking, something in our conversation about Poley struck me. Phelippes said that Poley had been newly infiltrated into Babington’s household. Phelippes had once quietly pointed Babington out to me in the street near Lincoln’s Inn, a bright-eyed young man whom I recognised. A young man who was no stranger to Poley, for I had seen him on that Sabbath day, not a few weeks but many months before, talking about a bet over a horse, with Poley’s loving arm around his neck.
A few days after this conversation with Phelippes, I was doing my morning rounds in the hospital. It was a quiet day and I had taken time to visit the room where the sewing women worked. There I found Margaret Jenkins chatting eagerly to another of the women as she stitched diligently at one of the simple shifts we provide for our poor patients. Many of them arrive in rags and most are infested with lice, so their clothes must be removed and washed by the laundry maids while they are clad in these shifts. When they leave the hospital to return home, their clothes are returned, if they are fit to wear. If they are too ragged even for the poorest of the poor, we have a supply of simple clothes donated by charitable citizens, usually cast-offs from their servants, but generally better than what the patients arrive wearing.
I could see that Margaret’s needle flashed in and out as fast as any woman’s as she hemmed the shift and she seemed quite at ease amongst the other seamstresses. Dickon lay asleep in a large wicker basket, his thumb in his mouth. I had heard that he had become a pet amongst the sewing women. On my way back to the wards, I spoke to the mistress of the sewing women.
‘Yes, she does very well, Margaret Jenkins. She should really be doing better work than we can offer her here. She has shown me some of her embroidery and it is very fine.’
‘I am sure she is glad of any work you can give her, even simple stitchery. All she needs is a safe income to keep her and the child. He is no trouble, is he, the child?’
‘None at all. As yet,’ she said cautiously. ‘Once he begins to crawl, it may be another matter. Our working space is full of hazards, pins, scissors . . .’
‘I’m sure you will think of something.’ I smiled to myself, for her stern face had softened when she spoke of Dickon.
Back in the ward I changed the dressing on a sawyer’s gashed arm and decided that a woman who had been brought in with heavy bleeding after childbirth was well enough for her husband to take her home. I was just discussing with Peter what salves we needed made up for the next day when the superintendant’s assistant came into the ward.
Although St Bartholomew’s had a board of six governors and a superintendant of the hospital, these were primarily honorary offices. The governors made their regular inspections, for Barts had a reputation for its high standards. The superintendant was Sir Miles Wakefield, a man far too distinguished to take part in the day-to-day running of the hospital. The post no doubt provided him with a private income but did not demand his presence. His assistant, Master Temperley, a harassed man of fifty or so, handled the paperwork of the hospital, ordering supplies, supervising repairs to the building and overseeing the payment of staff, including my father and myself. We rarely saw him in the wards, for he lived in his office, a remote room I had never entered.
‘Ah, Master Alvarez,’ he said, rubbing his hands together as he approached. Unlike most in the hospital, he did not award me the honorary title of Doctor.
‘Yes, Master Temperley? You wanted to see me?’ I was apprehensive. Why should he seek me out like this?
‘You must come to the governors’ room at once,’ he said, turning his back on me and walking away. Clearly he expected me to follow.
My heart sank. My only direct contact with the governors had been their last visit, when Sir Jonathan had been taken ill. Was there to be some complaint about me? I followed Temperley nervously to the door of the governors’ room, where he knocked and showed me in, then withdrew.
Sir Jonathan was there, seated at the head of the table, with two other governors beside him.
‘Come in, Dr Alvarez,’ he said. ‘Please take a seat.’
I sat down in some relief. From his tone, he was not here to complain.
‘Are you fully recovered, sir?’ I asked. He certainly looked better, a healthy colour to his skin and a bright eye.
‘Aye, and all thanks to you, young man.’ He beamed and the other two men nodded sagely.
‘It is because of your prompt action that we are here. I realise that you probably saved my life that day. After I was carried home, my own physician told me that I had had a narrow escape. Without your intervention I would probably have died.’
I bowed my head slightly, not quite sure what to say. ‘I am glad I was able to help you, sir.’
‘Now then,’ he said. ‘What are we to do with you?’
I looked up, startled.
‘I understand that you have had no formal university training in medicine, is that correct?’
‘I have not, sir, but my father was a professor of medicine at Coimbra University before we came to England and I have been trained by him.’
‘Yes, indeed, and he is a very fine doctor. But without a university degree, you will not be admitted to the Royal College of Physicians.’
‘I am aware of that.’ Where could this be leading?
‘We therefore have a proposal to make to you. In recognition of your work here, and the promise you have of making an excellent doctor yourself one day, we would like to offer you the chance to attend the medical school in the University of Oxford, paid for by the governors of St Bartholomew’s.
I stared at him. My mouth must have gaped like an idiot’s. To study at Oxford! This was what I had dreamed of, ever since we had come to England. To gain a degree, be admitted to the Royal College, to rise to a senio
r position in the profession I loved. Everything in me cried out to say yes.
But I could not.
I knew how students lived in Oxford. Four or six students lodged in their tutor’s rooms in college. They ate with him, slept in one room together. Dressed and undressed in company. It was impossible.
I gripped my hands tightly together under the table. What was I to say? I must refuse, but it would seem the basest ingratitude.
‘Sir Jonathan, I am more grateful than I can say. It is most generous of you, of the hospital . . .’ I stuttered to a halt. ‘But I think, my father, he needs me.’ I paused again, then a thought flashed through my mind.
‘You know, I believe, that I also work for Sir Francis Walsingham as a code-breaker, analysing ciphers and transcribing documents. It is work he considers of the greatest importance in these troubled times.’
‘Yes, Sir Francis has made us aware of your work.’
‘I think it would cause difficulties if I were to leave, at this moment in particular. The work is secret. I may not speak of it, I am afraid. But Sir Francis believes that this year is of vital importance.’
‘You do not believe you can accept our offer,’ he said flatly. There was the merest hint of displeasure in his voice.
‘Not at present, sir. Perhaps in a year or so, if Sir Francis can spare me . . .’
‘Very well.’ His tone was warmer now. ‘Your sense of duty does you credit, for I can see that you would like to accept.’
‘Yes,’ I said, and I did not try to disguise my eagerness. ‘Oh yes, I would.’
‘Well, we will speak of it again in the future, Dr Alvarez. And I thank you again for all you did for me.’
I bowed my way out of the room. I managed to reach one of the storerooms and shut myself in before my tears overwhelmed me.
Chapter Ten
One evening, Phelippes and I were working through a packet containing more than twenty letters which had been intercepted on their way to the French embassy from the Scottish queen. Two were in a new code and were giving us some trouble, for we had no key.