by Ann Swinfen
Rikki would not be welcome around the house by Ruy on this of all days. While I was out collecting my boots the previous day, Ruy had heard that he had lost his sumach and aniseed monopoly and the Privy Council looked coldly on all his excuses and appeals. The Queen, however, who had always valued him and treated his family kindly, had sent word that she would not dismiss him. It was his nature always to rage at any insult or setback, while an instance of good fortune was regarded as merely his due. Today he was stamping about the house, swearing at the servants and snapping at Sara when she pointed out the blessing of the Queen’s continued patronage. All he could think about was his treatment by the Privy Council.
Soon he would need to concentrate solely on his medical practice once more, particularly after the loss of income from the monopoly, and leave off meddling in affairs of state. He would again be scurrying between the courts at Greenwich, Hampton Court, and Whitehall, or attending the Queen on her progresses, then riding out to Eton to treat Dom Antonio, who was held there little better than a prisoner (for he had tried to escape to the Continent), and riding back again to treat my Lord Essex at Essex House. In the meantime, however, all he could think of was the insult and drop in income through losing his monopoly. It was better for both Rikki and me to be out of the house.
So I would take Rikki with me once again to Seething Lane. However, I thought I would make a better case if I went alone to see Sir Francis. I could leave the dog with the stable lad Harry, who was fond of him. It would also give me the chance to look in on Hector, the ugly piebald I often rode on Walsingham’s business. It seemed a long time since I had last had the chance to do so.
I donned my new clothes, strapped on my sword, and begged a couple of small apples from the cook to give to Hector. While I had been waiting for my boots to be polished by Liza Cordiner, I had gone next door and bought a new collar and lead for Rikki from Bess Winterly. His old ones had vanished along with all my other possessions. I was running up more debts to Sara, who brushed aside my promises to repay her, but I was keeping careful note of everything I spent. I would never let myself fall into debt as my father had done, but would repay her every penny and groat. For a moment I thought longingly of replacing my father’s lost medical books, but it would be long before I possessed the chinks to do that, even if I could find any copies amongst the booksellers in Paul’s Churchyard.
The evening before I had sent a note round to Seething Lane, asking if Sir Francis could see me, and a servant had brought back a reply before I went to bed, saying that he would be free after he had returned from his morning visit to the Queen, at ten of the clock. Sir Francis was Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary, which meant he carried a great burden of duties in addition to organising and directing his secret service of agents and code-breakers. When I had last seen him, he had looked even more ill than usual. It was never spoken of, and I could not be sure what ailed him, but I knew he was often in pain. I suspect it might be some disease of the kidneys or liver. Dr Nuñez was his physician and would, of course, maintain the strictest silence on the condition of his distinguished patient.
As I walked through the hot and busy streets, where everyone seemed to be going about their daily occupations as usual, I thought how deceptive was this appearance of calm. The three greatest figures in the realm, on whom rested the peace and security of England, were all of them growing old or ill. The Queen seemed indomitable, but she could not live for ever. She had no child and would not speak of appointing an heir, though Lord Stanley’s mother might be regarded as the nearest thing to one, by the provisions of King Henry’s will. Lord Burghley, on whom the Queen had depended since she was no more than a girl, was becoming old and frail. Sir Francis had constant bouts of illness, which the weight of his responsibilities must frequently aggravate.
And always Spanish King Philip circled like a waiting shark, preparing to make another attack. A year had passed since his great invading fleet had swept up the Channel, and although our recent expedition had done a little damage to his remaining navy, he had almost limitless resources drawn from the gold and silver mines of the New World. It would not take him long to rebuild and re-equip his ships. What then? The state of England was like a three-legged stool, held steady by those three mighty figures. If one failed, would the whole country collapse into impotence and ruin?
As usual when I walked across London, I ignored most of the street vendors, but when a pamphlet seller cried, ‘My Lord Essex’s tale of heroism! Read all about My Lord’s adventures against the stinking Spanish! Only a farthing!’
He waved a crudely printed pamphlet in my face. On my journey back from Plymouth I had heard that Essex was putting about stories of his fictitious heroic exploits during the Portuguese expedition. It might be wise to see what this latest version said, before I saw Walsingham and presented my reports. Though I begrudged the farthing.
Walking on towards Tower Ward, I quickly read the pamphlet, growing more annoyed with every sentence.
Something I found inexplicable, as one who had been in Essex’s company for most of the Portuguese venture, was the heroic light in which he was now viewed by the Court and populace alike. He had taken advantage of his early return, before the rest of us, to spread about his story of the expedition, in which his achievements and gallant behaviour outshone the bumbling mistakes of everyone else. Within days of his return, his friends and followers were publishing these encomiums in verse and prose, detailing the mythic (and truly imaginary) deeds of this great man. He had much to gain from such a portrait, as did those who hung about him like leeches. These same eulogies were repeated, in even more extravagant terms, in the present pamphlet. When I had read it, I tore it up in disgust and threw it in the gutter. Yet who would have listened to me? Somehow, he had the skill to persuade people that what was, was not, and that what was not, was.
I could only hope that Walsingham, who well knew both me and the Earl, would balance my report against these fly-blown attempts to ennoble the absurd follies of this arrogant and often dangerous nobleman.
On reaching Seething Lane, I entered as usual through the stableyard, from which I could reach both Walsingham’s and Phelippes’s offices by the backstairs. The stable lad Harry was crossing the yard, carrying a bucket of feed for the horses. He set it down with a clatter and seized my hand, pumping it up and down enthusiastically. My position here at Walsingham’s house was always ambiguous. I might be a gentleman, entitled to work on almost equal terms with Thomas Phelippes, but the grooms and stable lads saw me as one of themselves, knowing my affection for the ugly Hector.
‘So you survived the mad attempt to put that Portingall fellow on the throne,’ he said. ‘I’m that glad to see you! I never thought it would succeed, even with Drake leading it.’
I did not try to disillusion him with my harsher opinions of Drake. The piratical captain was a hero amongst the young lads of London, who dreamed of one day sailing the seas with him in search of booty from the Spanish treasure ships. It amused me that he spoke of ‘Portingalls’ as an alien species. Not long ago I would have been labelled as one of them, but it seemed I had earned my right to be regarded as an Englishman, at least here in the stableyard, and that was an opinion worth valuing.
‘And here’s Rikki,’ he said, squatting down and fondling the dog’s ears. ‘How are you, old fellow? Has your master been starving you? You’ve lost weight.’
He gave me an accusing look.
‘You should have seen him when I first returned,’ I said defensively. ‘My father died and Rikki was turned out on to the street. He was but skin and bone when I found him. He’s recovering now.’
Harry stood up, his face grave. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Master Alvarez. Your father was a fine physician. I know some who have been treated by him at Barts, and all have praised him.’ He reached out and tentatively touched my arm. I felt my eyes begin to prick. I had not expected this show of sympathy.
‘I thank you, Harry. Now, I have a meeti
ng with Sir Francis shortly. May I leave Rikki with you? And I’ve just time to see Hector. Is he well?’
‘Well enough. Fretting at being so long kept in the stable. Will you be taking him out, do you think?’
‘That I cannot say. Probably not. I have come to report on the expedition, but I do not know if Sir Francis has any work for me.’
Rikki went off quite happily with Harry as he carried the oats round the stalls and I let myself into Hector’s loose box. He whickered a greeting and nuzzled into my shoulder. I put my arm round his neck as I palmed the apples for him. As always when I was with Hector I felt an intense longing to own him. He was just one of Walsingham’s horses, but he felt as though he was mine. It was sheer folly. Even if I had the riches to buy him, even if Walsingham would sell him, how could I pay for his livery? He had been bred on Walsingham’s country estate at Barn Elms and for all I knew, Sir Francis cared for him as much as I did. He was the cleverest horse I had ever known and the fleetest of foot, despite his ugly coat, which drew the eye away from his beautiful proportions and the fine modelling of his head. He was part Arab and had all the qualities of the breed. He was favourite amongst the stable staff here and at Barn Elms, so I probably had plenty of rivals in wanting to own him. I gave him a final rub between the ears and let myself out of the loose box. It was time to see Sir Francis.
I made my way up the stairs and along the corridor with its familiar gloomy family portraits. In answer to my knock, Sir Francis called me in and greeted me warmly, shaking my hand and bowing. He drew up two chairs beside the empty fireplace and motioned me to one of them.
‘You’ve been visiting Hector?’ he asked.
I was startled at this indication of clairvoyance, then realised that the front of my doublet was covered with grey and white hairs. Hector must be shedding in the hot weather. Embarrassed, I brushed myself down.
‘Aye. I always bring him an apple or two whenever I come. He’s served me well in the past. Got me out of one or two scrapes as well, thanks to his speed.’
‘I remember.’ He smiled, and I realised he was not chiding me.
I drew the two reports out of my satchel and handed them to him.
‘As I promised, I have written an account of the Portuguese expedition for you, Sir Francis. One is a general account of every stage of the venture, from the time we arrived at Plymouth in the spring until we returned there last month. I have tried to set out everything as accurately as I could, avoiding nothing. It does not make pretty reading.’ I paused. I might as well prepare him, I thought. ‘Matters were not well managed,’ I said bluntly. ‘The other is a brief summary of the two particular missions you set me, one successful, one not.’
‘In that,’ he said grimly, ‘you proved more successful than the expedition itself.’
‘There was a terrible loss of life.’ I should have kept my tongue behind my teeth, but the words burst out.
He looked at me sadly and nodded.
‘Aye. There was.’
Then he put on his spectacles, and read both reports at once, while I sat there, growing more and more nervous, as he turned over the pages, frowning as he read. At last he laid his spectacles on the small table at his elbow, rubbed his eyes, and sighed. His face looked even more gaunt than when I had last seen him, before we sailed from London. The dark patches under his eyes were black as ink, and he wore a little velvet cap, like a night-cap, from which a few thin strands of grey hair straggled like unravelled wool. His hands, clasped on top of my reports, were bony as a skeleton, and they trembled uncontrollably.
‘Yes, Kit,’ he said at last, glancing down at the reports lying on his lap. ‘You have done well to set all this down. I have heard parts of the story from some of the leaders, but each man blames the others. As an outsider, you have dealt fairly with them all. Nothing can be done now to recover the disaster, but perhaps we can gain some wisdom from it.’
‘I fear . . .’ I said.
‘Aye, Kit? You may speak freely.’
‘I fear the matter may not yet be finished. As you say, Sir Francis, the various leaders blame each other. Their quarrels will not be over today or tomorrow. A great many people have lost their investments, from Her Majesty herself down to smaller investors than my father. The vast numbers of men dead – there will be thousands of women widowed, even more thousands of children orphaned. Of the men who survived, many were wounded or left much weakened by sickness, especially those on the ships left without food.’ I drew a long breath, recalling that nightmare journey of starvation and death.
‘When we reached Plymouth, those who were able to walk were given nothing but five shillings and a licence to beg until they reached home.’ I reached out my hands to plead with him, ‘Sir Francis, these men were promised great riches if they joined the expedition! They were not all worthy men. Some were cowards. Some were scoundrels. Some were no more than idle. But their sufferings were terrible. They deserve justice. And I think they will not all go quietly home until they get it.’
He studied me closely, with a curious expression on his face.
‘I think you are turned lawyer, Kit.’
Then he must have seen something in my face.
‘Nay, I do not mock you. You care for these men and their fate, and I respect you. I too fear the aftermath of this ill-managed affair. You are quite likely right, that we may see some claims for better recompense from the survivors, even for the widows of those who died, but I do not know where it is to be found. As you say, many have lost great sums. The public purse is empty. I would gladly see the men better rewarded, but we have no means to do it.’
He poured himself a glass of wine with one of those shaking hands, and a drop fell on my report. He made an impatient noise, angry at his weakness, and with a fine silk handkerchief dabbed up the spilt wine.
‘Come, let us turn to other matters. Will you take a glass, Kit?’
‘Thank you, sir.’ I was relieved. I did not think he would offer me wine if he was displeased with me.
We sipped our wine in silence for a minute. Then he said, ‘And you, Kit, what will you do now? I hear that your father died while you were away.’
Was there nothing this man did not know?
‘He did, sir. I have lost my father, my home and my employment at St Bartholomew’s. My father had invested all his savings in the venture, so when he died all our possessions were seized by his creditors.’ I could not keep the bitterness out of my voice. ‘Even these clothes you see me wearing I owe to the kindness of a friend.’
I drew a deep breath.
‘The woman who is now living in our house has told me that there are no positions free at St Bartholomew’s. I thought I might write to the governors of St Thomas’s hospital, to see if they would take me, but there may be nothing there either.’
‘Hmm. I might be able to do something for you there. You have not attended university, I remember.’
‘No, my father could not afford it. And I have no money now. I was trained simply at my father’s side.’
‘Do I not recall that the governors of St Bartholomew’s once offered you the chance of a place at Oxford, in gratitude for your treatment of Sir Jonathan Langley? But you turned down the chance.’
‘There were family problems, Sir Francis, at the time. I do not feel I could go a-begging now.’
I felt a chill. Much as I would have welcomed the chance to study at Oxford and qualify as an officially recognised physician, there was no possibility I could hide my sex, sharing rooms with fellow students for several years.
‘Without a degree,’ he said, ‘you will never be elected a Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians. You will have to stay an assistant all your life.’
‘I know that. But I have no choice.’
‘Although sometimes there are special circumstances . . .’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Well, we shall see what can be done. And whenever Thomas Phelippes has need of your code-breaking skills, we will send for you. Will that help you to
earn a living?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ I had never thought I would be grateful to be working for the spymaster, but who can predict how our lives will shape themselves?
‘Go and see Thomas now. He may have work for you, or be able to tell you when there might be need of your skills. We know your aptitude for deciphering codes, and your fluency in languages is also useful to us.’
He got to his feet, easing himself out of the chair by gripping the arms. I rose as well.
‘I will make enquiries at both Bartholomew’s and Thomas’s and write to you when I have any news.’
I bowed. ‘I thank you for your kindness, Sir Francis.’ I hesitated. It was not quite my place, but we had come gradually to be on closer terms than in the past.
‘Your family, sir, are they well?’
‘My wife, God be thanked, is in excellent health. My daughter Frances is out of the official mourning for her husband, of course, but his loss grieved her deeply. She had known Sir Philip since she was a tiny child. Little Elizabeth grows well and never stops chattering!’ He gave a faint smile, then shook his head. ‘The younger child died.’
‘I am sorry for it,’ I said. Frances Walsingham was little older than I and had been carrying her second child when her husband died in the Flemish wars.
‘Aye, well.’ He sighed. ‘What kind of a world is this to bring a child into? War and plague and treachery at every turn.’
I had never heard him so downcast.
‘I believe we are strong,’ I said hesitantly. ‘With yourself and My Lord Burghley to guide and protect Her Majesty, England is in safe hands.’
