The Enterprise of England (9 page)

Most people simply walked past but I stopped and caught hold of the man’s whip arm. ‘I will give you a shilling if you will give me your whip and buy food for yourself and your animal.’

I could see that the man himself was gaunt with hunger and had a withered leg. He looked at me as if I were mad, his mouth hanging open. I don’t suppose anyone had ever given him more than a penny before. I held up two sixpenny pieces in one hand and reached out my other hand for the whip. Still gaping he grabbed the coins and bit them to be sure they were genuine.

‘The whip,’ I said.

He shrugged and handed it to me. I knew he would soon be able to get another, but at least they would both eat and the bear would be spared a whipping for the moment.

‘Be sure and feed the bear as well,’ I said.

‘Aye,’ he growled. ‘I’m no fool. He’s my livelihood.’

I left him staring at me as I walked away. The whip I snapped into four piece
s and threw into the Fleet River.

There were three saddlers and leatherworking shops in Eastcheap. At the first one I was told that Jake Winterly’s shop was across the street and a hundred yards further on, at the sign of the Brown Bull and Scissors. I found the sign – a remarkably placid looking bull standing next to an enormous pair of scissors, as tall as he was. The door stood open, as did most doors in the street, to let in a little air on this hot day, and the counter was folded down from the front of the shop. Over the top I could see a woman and a small boy moving about inside, setting out a row of leather beer tankards along a shelf.

‘Mistress Winterly?’ I said as I walked in.

She turned and smiled at me, a plump, rosy-faced woman of about forty. The boy was about seven or eight and had the same yellow curls as William.

‘Aye, sir. That’s me. What can I do for you?’ She came forward, wiping her hands, which looked perfectly clean, on  her apron.

There was no point weaving about the subject. Best to get it over with.

‘I am a doctor at St Bartholomew’s,’ I said. ‘Your brother, William Baker, was brought in yesterday.’

Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a faint cry and she sank down on a bench.

‘Was he one of those at Sluys, sir? We couldn’t be sure. Last we heard, he was posted to Dover. He’s a poor hand at writing letters.’

‘I don’t suppose many letters made their way out of Sluys,’ I said, ‘except official despatches slipped out by a few brave messengers. Aye, he’s one of the survivors.’

‘Oh, Jesu be praised!’ She had gone quite white. Now her face flushed again. ‘Will, go and fetch your father.’

The boy ran to a curtain which covered the door to the back shop and slipped through.

‘Please, sir, take a seat. I’ve been that worried, not knowing whether he had been sent with those men to the Low Countries, or whether he was in that terrible siege. Is he hurt?’

I sat down on a three-legged stool facing her. ‘I think all of those who survived were hurt. They made a brave stand to the very end.’ I was more reluctant than ever to break the news.

‘William was always determined to be a soldier. Our father was a saddler, and Jake – that’s my man – was his journeyman. We wanted William to stay in the business, but there was nothing for it but he must become a soldier. He said that way he would see the world. He couldn’t go for a sailor, for he’d be sick just in a wherry crossing the Thames.’ She gave an indulgent sister’s chuckle. ‘And then, after all, he’s spent most of his time guarding the Tower or down at Dover castle. I don’t suppose he saw much of the world down in Kent.’

She seemed to have forgotten her question in her memories of her brother, and I was uncertain how to answer it now, but at that moment a big man pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the shop. Like his wife he was at least fifteen years older than William Baker, his hair already grizzled at the temples. I noticed that his hands were stained from the leather dyes. I stood up and made a slight bow.

‘Master Winterly? I am Christoval Alvarez, a physician at St Bartholomew’s. I have brought word of your brother-in-law.’

He bowed his head, then moved swiftly to his wife’s side and laid his hand on her shoulder.

‘He’s one of the men from Sluys?’ he said. ‘I saw them being carried off the ship yesterday. How bad is William?’

I swallowed. ‘His leg had been smashed by a Spanish cannon ball several weeks ago. I don’t suppose they had much medical care in the garrison. When I saw him last night, he had developed gangrene.’

The woman pressed both hands to her mouth and tears welled up in her eyes.

‘Is he dead?’ The man’s tone was not abrupt. I could see that he just n
eeded to know the worst, without any more hesitation.

‘We had to amputate,’ I said. ‘We fetched the best surgeon in
London. Master Hawkins. He thinks it is clean now, and when I left the hospital early this morning, William was sleeping peacefully. But I am sure you understand. Until the leg has healed, we cannot be sure the gangrene will not return.’

The woman was weeping openly now, but silently, covering her face with her apron. I saw her husband tighten his grip on her shoulder. The child had slipped behind her and was looking first at his father and then at me.

The man cleared his throat. ‘So he will be crippled. The army will throw him out.’

‘Aye.’ I wasn’t prepared to lie to these people. I could see that they wanted the truth. ‘Otherwise, he is unharmed. If he recovers, as I hope he will, he will be able to get about on crutches, but certainly he can no longer be a soldier.’

I left it hanging in the air. The woman lifted her tear stained face from her apron and looked up at her husband. Neither said anything, but he gave a small nod.

‘William will come here,’ he said, ‘once he is able to leave the hospital. There is plenty of work that he can do. The navy is needing ale jacks and scabbards and quivers and the Saints only know what else.’

‘Uncle William can share your room, Will,’ the woman said, ‘and he can tell you all about his adventures. Won’t that be grand?’

The child nodded solemnly, then suddenly grinned. I realised that the family probably lived in the cramped quarters above the shop, but their warmth warmed me and I suddenly felt a flood of relief. This had not been quite the ordeal I had dreaded. I stood up.

‘If you would like to visit, William,’ I said, ‘I think it would do him good.’ I was sure the knowledge that he would have a home and an occupation, to come to when he left the hospital, would help him recover as much as anything I could do.

‘I’ll come now!’ The woman sprang to her feet and rubbed her face dry on her apron. ‘Will, you must mind the shop for Mama – can you so that?’

The child, flushed with pride, nodded.

‘Are you going back to the hospital now, Doctor? May I walk with you?’

‘Certainly.’

As she took off her apron and fetched her hat from a hook at the back of the shop, I turned to her husband. ‘Thank you, Master Winterly,’ I said, barely above a whisper. ‘That is the best medicine I can bring him. He is near despair.’

‘He need not despair.’ His voice was as soft as mine. ‘There will always be a home for him here.’

Mistress Winterly and I crossed the city together, saying little. In her anxiety to see her brother she walked hurriedly, almost breaking into a run from time to time, then, recalling herself, slowed down again.

‘Forgive me, Doctor,’ she said. ‘I am afraid that, if I don’t hurry . . .’

‘Nothing to forgive,’ I said. ‘But do not be afraid. There was no sign of the gangrene this morning. I am sure he will be alive when we get there.’

I hoped I was speaking the truth. Sometimes it can happen, after a very severe injury, or an amputation, that a patient may simply die of shock. It is as if the heart cannot endure any more. But William was young and, apart from his injury and the privations of the siege, he was probably strong enough. Yet sometimes, too, a mind full of despair can end a man’s life, if he no longer wants to live.

The ward was not much changed from last night, though several of the regular patients had been sent home and the most badly injured of the soldiers moved into their beds. There was a little more space between the pallets on the floor. Clearly the mistress of the nursing sisters had stood firm against any women of the neighbourhood being allowed near the patients, but some of the sewing women were assisting and the women servants were just clearing away the midday meal.

I led Mistress Winterly over to William’s bed. To my relief, he was still there. I had feared we might find him dead already. He lay quite still, his eyes closed, his face very pale. When I laid my hand on his brow I could find no trace of fever, which augured well. I fetched a stool and placed it beside the bed.

‘Sit here,’ I said. ‘Take care not to lean on the bed. He will still be feeling much pain.’

Dr Stephens’s assistant, Thomas Derby, came across to us.

‘How is he faring, Thomas?’ I asked.

‘Quiet. No sign of fever yet.’ He glanced at Mistress Winterly and raised his eyebrows in question.

‘This is his sister, come to see him.’

‘I doubt if he will wake.’

At that moment William stirred and gave a soft moan. I leaned over him. His breathing was regular, but a look of agony passed over his face like a wave and his eyes opened. He stared at me until his eyes focused.

‘Doctor?’

‘You are doing well, William. And see, I have brought your sister to see you. She has much to tell you.’

As we had walked, I had warned her not to weep over him, if she could forebear. I saw now with what courage she smiled cheerfully.

‘Well, William, how good it is to see you at last! You are to come to us when you leave the hospital. Jake needs your help, for we are quite overwhelmed with business. So you see, you must get well, for our sake. I do not know how we can manage without you.’

I saw an incredulous look come over William’s face and he reached out to take his sister’s hand. I jerked my head at Thomas and we retreated.

‘That is one fellow who is likely to recover,’ he said. ‘That’s a brave woman. Does she know?’

‘Aye, she knows.’

I went the rounds of my more seriously injured patients. The young boy with the crushed hand was in a high fever, but I managed to dribble some of the febrifuge tincture into his mouth, although he thrashed about and spilt much of it. The hand was still very inflamed, so I salved it again, but did not remove the splints I had fixed the night before. They were still in place and were best not disturbed. He had been moved to a bed and next to him was Andrew.

‘And how do you find yourself today?’ I said, perched on the edge of his bed and unwinding the dressing on his head. It was a relief not to have to kneel on the floor to do it.

‘Still the tinsmiths in here,’ he said, tapping the uninjured side of his head. ‘Ouch, Kit, don’t tear my scalp off as well!’

‘Don’t squall like an infant,’ I said. I leaned over and sniffed the long gouge that ran above his ear. ‘No nasty smells, you’ll be glad to know. The ear is healing already. And the rest is beginning to dry up. It looks better than it did yesterday, even in this bright sunlight. You’ll live.’

‘That’s good to know. So I’ll soon be fit to be sent back to the
Low Countries.’

I looked at him soberly as I rebandaged his head. ‘Is that what will happen, do you think?’

He shrugged, and winced at the pain in his shoulder. ‘Either that or fighting the Spanish at sea. Everything depends on what King Philip intends.’

‘Aye. Well, Drake has bought us some time.’

‘They will come some time next year,’ he said with conviction. ‘That is why they wanted to take Sluys. Parma is establishing his bases all along the coast of the Low Countries, facing us across the Channel. I believe they will send their army across from there, while the Spanish navy comes up from the west. Snipping us like a pair of shears.’

I nodded. ‘That is what Walsingham believes as well. And he says we must defeat them at sea.’

Andrew nodded, then regretted it and put a hand to his brow. ‘I forgot. I must not do that. Aye, your master is right. On land we have no hope. We trained soldiers are so few.’ He cast a look around at the patients lying on the floor. ‘A thousand fewer now. No, our only hope is our navy.’

‘And will you be posted on shore?’ I asked.

‘Oh, no. We will be aboard the ships, ready to fight if we can board theirs, though I expect most of the fighting will be a cannon shot apart. We’ll use our archers, of course, both to attack their crews and to shoot fire arrows. The rest of us have our muskets.’

I shivered. ‘And then it will be left to us to put you all back together again.’

He gave a grim smile. ‘Let us hope we both survive long enough to do just that.’

Chapter Five

I
t was the end of September before the hospital was back to normal. Perhaps fifty of the soldiers were sufficiently recovered to be sent home at the end of a week or two, but most needed to stay much longer. Some died and their bodies were either claimed by their families or else they went to a pauper’s grave in the old churchyard where once they had buried the monks who had inhabited the priory of St Bartholomew. A few of the soldiers who seemed at first to have nothing but minor injuries proved to have more serious troubles, internal injuries or prolonged sickness brought about by the long weeks of siege and starvation. Then there were those whose injuries were known to be serious from the start.

The first soldier I had treated was one of those who proved to have hidden problems. His leg began to heal almost at once, but a week had passed before he confessed to pains in his chest. He told us that he had been hit in the side by a large piece of stone struck off the ramparts by a cannon ball. He admitted to bruises, but only later did we discover that he had broken three ribs. He had endured severe pain in silence before we found the cause, and he remained with us for several weeks.

To my relief and joy, the young boy with the crushed hand recovered well. He would bear the scars all his life, but he regained almost the full use of his fingers, although the smallest one remained twisted. He was claimed by his grandmother, a tiny woman who barely reached my shoulder, but whose energy burst from her like sparks from a bonfire. She bore him away, alternately scolding him and hugging him, while the lad blushed and hung his head as he walked past his grinning fellows.

‘Did I not warn you, you great gormless lad?’ she was saying as they passed through the door. ‘Playing soldiers! Nothing good could come of it. You’ll come home with me and tend the cows. That hand of your will soon be strong enough for milking. Playing soldiers, indeed!’

They were gone before I could hear his reply, if he dared to open his mouth at all to break in on her affectionate scolding.

Peter looked at me and grinned.

Bess Winterly came every day to visit her brother and after a few days brought her son with her. The child was subdued at first, looking around at all the wounded soldiers with round eyes, but by his third or fourth visit he was chattering to them and sharing out the cakes and sweetmeats his mother carried in every day in her basket. Our patients were well fed at St Bartholomew’s, but it was plain, hearty fare. I never saw any of the men refuse Bess’s treats. I was surprised that she brought the child, but one day, when he was beside Andrew’s bed, learning how to weave a cat’s cradle with his fingers and a length of string, she explained.

‘I don’t want my Will getting romantic ideas like his uncle about going for a soldier. I thought if he saw how these men have been injured, he would understand better. We want him to be apprenticed to Jake and learn a good trade.’

I nodded my understanding and thought of the small, fierce grandmother. We women are clear eyed about war while so many men seem blinded by talk of honour and glory. Yet I could hardly say so to Bess without revealing too much. So I said only, ‘It is physicians and surgeons who must try to repair their bodies and give them their lives back. I hope you succeed with Will.’

She smiled at me. ‘We are grateful for what you have done for William, Doctor.’

‘Your visits have done him more good than I. And given him hope for the future. Tomorrow we will let him try out the crutches our carpenter has made.’

William Baker was one of the last of the soldiers to leave. The stump of his severed leg healed cleanly and there was no further sign of gangrene. I was sure that he healed the better for having laid aside his despair. It took him days to learn to manage the crutches, but he was determined, and eventually could hop across the ward unaided. When the time came for him to leave, Jake Winterly came along with his wife to take William home. He had borrowed a cart, for the distance across
London was much too far for a one-legged man just learning to walk. Several of us from the hospital came to see them off from the hospital gatehouse, with young Will sitting proudly beside his father at the reins.

‘You will visit us, Doctor, won’t you?’ William leaned down to shake my hand.

‘Aye, I’ll come to see how you are faring.’ I decided that in a week or two I would order a leather belt from the shop, specifying that it must be made by William.

Andrew was also one of the last to leave. Although the wound in his head healed cleanly, and his ear was only slightly scarred, he still suffered persistent pains in the head and had moments of dizziness and disturbed vision. I was worried that there might have been some damage to his skull. I could find no fracture, but there might have been a crack beneath the skin, too fine to be found by probing. I consulted my father and Dr Stephens about it.

‘Aye, there could be some hurt done to the skull, though it clearly has not broken through enough to harm the brain,’ Dr Stephens said, after feeling all around the scar, where the new skin showed pink and fragile.

‘Sometimes a blow like that can lead to bruising of the brain,’ said my father, when he had asked Andrew to describe how his sight was affected – occasionally seeing objects doubled, and wh
at looked like zigzags of lightning across his vision.

‘That can often be a precursor to a severe headache, what we call a migraine,’ my father explained. ‘Do they occur before the onset of your headaches? And do you feel any sickness?’

‘Aye,’ Andrew said slowly. ‘Now you ask, the flashes do come an hour or two before the headaches. And I do feel sick sometimes.’

‘You have vomited at least once,’ I reminded him. I looked at my father. ‘Feverfew?’

‘Aye. See whether Peter can find you some fresh in the stillroom or the herb garden.’

‘There should be some still growing at this time of year,’ I agreed. ‘It is better fresh than the dried.’

I turned back to Andrew. ‘You can eat it like a salad herb. Slightly bitter, but not unpleasant.’

He looked at my father. ‘Will they get better? The headaches, and the other troubles to my sight?’

‘Aye. It may take time, but they will get better, if you give yourself a chance to recover. No returning to army duties yet a while.’

So Andrew stayed on until we were satisfied that the headaches were no longer so severe and he had no further spells of dizziness. He left the same day as William.

‘Well, Kit,’ he said, as we stood under the gatehouse. ‘We part again. I’ll make my way back to Dover and report for duty.’ He patted the front of his army tunic, washed and mended by our sewing women. ‘I’m glad to have this letter from your father to give the commander, else I’d probably be in irons on bread and water for staying away so long.’

‘Don’t let him set you to anything too strenuous at first,’ I said, without much hope.

He laughed. ‘You don’t know our commander. And next summer we will all be on very active service, I fear, when the Spanish dogs come.’

‘Good luck to you,’ I said.

‘And to you, Kit.’ He clapped me on the shoulder, swung his pack on to his back, and went off toward Newgate, striding out energetically and not looking back.

Twice during the time we were caring for the wounded soldiers from Sluys I had received messages from Phelippes, brought by Thomas Cassie, that he needed my help, but both times I had written back saying firmly that I could not be spared at the hospital. I reminded him of his own words, that it was essential that we patch up all our soldiers as best we could, for they would be needed when the invasion came. In November, however, a more urgent message arrived, saying that Sir Francis himself wished to see me. I no longer had the excuse of the soldiers and indeed matters were quiet at the hospital, the usual bouts of winter illness not having started yet.

‘Very well,’ I said to Cassie. ‘I will come back with you.’ As often before, he had come to our house at midday, knowing that it was our practice to go home for dinner on days when the work at the hospital was not too demanding.

‘You will not need me this afternoon?’ I looked at my father.

He shook his head. ‘Best see what it is that Sir Francis wants.’

The weather had already turned colder, so I threw a cloak over my doublet, and put an apple in my pocket, hoping I might have a chance to call in to Walsingham’s stables and see Hector. I tucked a pair of gloves into my belt. If Phelippes or Sir Francis kept me late, it would be even colder walking home. I was wearing the new belt made by William Baker, which he had insisted on giving me. It was made of a fine, supple leather and he had tooled it all over with Tudor roses, intertwined with ivy. Jake Winterly had not made a bad bargain, taking in his brother-in-law. And it was work William could do sitting down. He had flatly refused payment.

‘I know I am alive now because you fetched a surgeon so quickly.’ He gave me a pallid smile. ‘I didn’t think so at the time. In fact I hated you for it, putting me through all that pain, when all I wanted to do was die. But you were right and I was wrong. So I’d like you to have the belt, by way of apology.’

As Cassie and I walked along Eastcheap now, we passed the sign of the Black Bull and Scissors, where young Will waved to me from the doorway. I told Cassie the story of William Baker.

He shook his head. ‘I wonder just how many more William Bakers there are, over there in the
Low Countries. Those men from Sluys, they were lucky to be brought home. Most of our men fighting there have little care, only what an army surgeon can give, and I doubt that’s much.’

‘You are right,’ I said. ‘If Sir Philip Sidney had been brought home, we might have been able to save him, but perhaps he was too gravely injured to survive the journey.’

‘Have you heard that the commander at Sluys, Sir Roger Williams, was himself wounded in the arm? He came home destitute, not even able to buy a horse. And because the town was surrendered, he is deemed to have failed, though the failure was Leicester’s, who stayed offshore and did not come to his aid.’

‘So I suppose,’ I said, ‘there will be no pension for Sir Roger from the Queen, or any recognition that they held out for nearly two months, waiting for reinforcements to come, until they had nothing left to eat and no gunpowder to fight with.’

He shook his head, then gave a wry smile. ‘My lady Walsingham advised Sir Roger to marry a rich merchant’s widow instead, and he says he may take her advice.’

I laughed ruefully. ‘Well, I wish there were enough rich widows to go round all the lads we treated. Otherwise most of them have no future but to go back and fight again. Next time they may not survive.’

Going up the backstairs at Seething Lane, I met Nicholas Berden coming down. One of Walsingham’s most experienced agents, he was a man I had worked with in the final days of rounding up the Babington conspirators, more than a year ago now.

‘Good day to you, Kit,’ he said, pausing briefly in his rapid descent. ‘Busy times. Phelippes will be glad to see you.’

‘Busy?’ I said.

‘The pace is quickening. The Spanish shipwrights are working night and day, and the king’s emissaries are buying up most of
Europe in provisions and weapons.’ He shook his head. ‘What it is, to have a bottomless purse!’

‘Aye,’ I said, ‘not something we are familiar with in
England. Is Sir Francis in his office?’

‘He is. I believe he has some project for you.’ With that he sketched a quick bow and hurried on down the stairs.

My heart sank. Some project? I did not care for the sound of that. If Phelippes needed me for code-breaking and translating, Berden would not have called it a project. The previous year Sir Francis had used me in a few spying missions, but I hoped he was not planning to do so again. I had heard nothing more of the Catholic Fitzgerald family, after he had placed me to spy on them. The mission with Phelippes to Sussex, however, where I had first met Andrew amongst our accompanying escort of troopers, had led to the discovery of two enemies of the Queen entering the country illegally. Afterwards, Walsingham had disguised me as a messenger from one of them to Sir Anthony Babington himself. To my sorrow, I had found I liked Babington, as I had liked most of the Fitzgeralds, so I dreaded being employed as a spy again. The word project was loaded with uncomfortable possibilities.

‘Enter!’ Sir Francis called when I knocked on his door.

‘Ah, Kit! Come in, come in.’ Sir Francis rose from the chair behind his desk and came round to where two chairs were drawn near the fire.

I did not like the signs. If it had been a brief instruction, he would have stayed behind his desk. Sitting in this friendly fashion beside the fire betokened something worse.

‘Hang your cloak on the peg over there,’ he said. ‘You’ll take a glass of wine?’

‘Thank you.’ It was rare for me to taste anything but small ale or occasionally beer. If this was going to be a difficult interview I would at least wash it down with a glass of Sir Francis’s excellent wine, which he probably obtained through the trading links of Dr Nuñez or Dunstan Añez. I took my seat and accepted the glass he handed to me. As I held it up to the firelight it glowed as rich red as one of the Queen’s rubies.

‘Your health, Kit!’

‘And yours, sir.’

We sipped our wine as he questioned me carefully about my work with the survivors of Sluys.