Voyage to Muscovy (The Chronicles of Christoval Alvarez Book 6) Read online

  He gave a worried frown and seemed about to say something else, but then he shook his head and patted my arm.

  ‘Off with you to your bed. You will do your patients no good if you get no rest. Ned will light your way to the stairs.’

  ‘In any case,’ I said, ‘I could not go to Muscovy. I have my work in the hospital.’

  At one time, Walsingham could have sent me where he pleased and managed all arrangements with the hospital, but Walsingham was gone and I was no longer employed on secret missions. Life had grown a little dull of late, but there was no denying that it was less dangerous. I had no wish to travel to Muscovy, even though Ivan the Terrible had gone. It was rumoured that he had perished in the throes of a murderous rage, like that in which he had killed his son and heir. The thought of such a country made me shudder.

  ‘God go with you, Dr Nuñez.’

  ‘And with you, Kit.’

  I huddled in my cloak as the wherryman rowed me across the river. Although there were a few signs of spring by day, the nights were still cold and a cutting east wind was blowing upriver, funnelled between the arches of the Bridge. At St Olave’s Stairs I paid the wherryman and scrambled ashore.

  Light flowed from the windows of the whorehouse as I passed, and I could hear music and laughter from within, so I walked more quickly. The Winchester goose Bessie Travis was forever trying to invite me inside, from the kindest of motives, and I was forced to employ every strategy at my command to avoid her. There was a light, too, showing under Simon’s door as I made my way up the stairs to my room in the lodging house, sheltering from the draughts the candle Goodwife Atkins had left for me.

  I thumped on Simon’s door and went in. He was crouched over his candle with some ragged sheets of paper in his hand, muttering to himself.

  ‘Conning a new part?’ I asked, placing my candle where it would benefit him and throwing myself down on his bed with my hands behind my head.

  ‘Aye.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘We have but two days to learn this new piece that Will has made for us out of an old story. I grant you this: the fellow writes quickly, but Master Burbage is in such a hurry to open the Theatre that we start to rehearse on Friday and perform the new play next week.’

  ‘It’s still mighty cold for playing in the open air,’ I said. ‘I thought you would stay on in the hall of the Cross Keys a few more weeks.’

  ‘So did I, but Master Burbage thinks the new play will draw a larger audience than the inn will hold. Where have you been this evening?’

  ‘Dining at the Lopez house. Shall I hear you?’

  ‘Aye.’ He passed me the handful of sheets and I heard his part until he reached the end. He was always quick to learn.

  ‘And what entertainment did you have with the Queen’s distinguished physician?’ he asked, getting up to pour us each a mug of ale. It was a homely brew compared with Ruy’s fine wine, but I liked it better. It would not fuddle me so.

  ‘I was half asleep most of the time,’ I admitted. ‘And I must be off to my bed soon. ‘They were talking about the Muscovy Company.’

  ‘Were they, indeed!’ Simon said, with more interest than I would have expected.

  ‘Are you planning to invest?’ I said.

  I grinned. If Simon ever had more than the next month’s rent put aside, I would wonder at it.

  ‘Very witty,’ he said. ‘Nay. There is some talk of Master Burbage sending a group of us out with the Company fleet to perform abroad.’

  ‘In Muscovy!’ I gaped at him.

  ‘Nay, not to those barbarians. We would go only part way, to the trading town of Wardhouse. We would mount a few plays there, then come back with the fleet when it returns to England a few weeks later.’

  ‘Wardhouse?’ I said. ‘That is somewhere off the north coast of Norway. And its true name is Vardøhus.’

  ‘Well, Master Burbage calls it Wardhouse. He says they are starved of entertainment and will pay us well. Cuthbert Burbage will be in charge. I have put myself forward to be one of those chosen. I enjoyed our time in the Low Countries last year. It will mean I have the chance to play better parts than here in London, for I doubt Christopher Haigh or Dick Burbage will want to go, they are too busy making a name for themselves here.’

  He sounded somewhat bitter. Usually Simon was resigned to the fact that a player must accept the parts allotted him, though he grumbled when he was obliged to play a comic. He had not long moved on from taking women’s roles, which he had done since he left St Paul’s as a boy and joined Burbage’s men, but now he was eager for the better parts mostly allotted to Christopher and Dick.

  ‘Well, I shall miss you if you go,’ I said, keeping my voice casual, ‘but I can understand that it would be a great opportunity. However, I have heard that the journey is bleak and miserable to those northern parts. The North Cape is said to be the furthest north any man has ever ventured. I should not care for it myself.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘You have far more experience of the world than I have, Kit. That trip to the Low Countries was the only time I have ventured outside England. After listening to Raleigh and Harriot speaking of the New World, I am restless here on our little island.’

  ‘Be grateful for a peaceful homeland,’ I said, somewhat sharply, aware that Simon knew nothing of those aspects of the wider world with which I was all too familiar.

  ‘It is a strange coincidence that you should speak of travelling on the Muscovy fleet,’ I said, in a friendlier voice. ‘This very evening Ambrose Lopez was trying to persuade me to go to Muscovy on Company business.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Simon raised his eyebrows. ‘Why should that be?’

  ‘Oh, they need someone to hunt for a missing man sent out there last year by Walsingham. Ambrose spoke in jest.’

  I remembered, however, that Dr Nuñez had warned me that the suggestion might be considered seriously.

  ‘Would you go? If you were asked?’

  ‘I no longer work for Walsingham,’ I said.

  As I spoke the words, I felt a sharp pang. Over the years I had learned to admire the man known as the Queen’s Spymaster. Even, a little, to love him, for since my father’s death he and Dr Nuñez had come close to taking his place.

  ‘No one works for Walsingham now,’ he said, ‘and no one knows who will replace him. But I suppose someone will need to search for this fellow. Who is it? Someone you know?’

  ‘Gregory Rocksley,’ I said. ‘I barely know him. I think I would recognise him if I met him, though I am not sure. But that is all.’

  ‘And how many could say the same? Did you not tell me that most of Walsingham’s agents have drifted away to other employment? It began even before his death.’

  What he said was true.

  ‘That does not mean I am the only person who would recognise him,’ I protested, aware that Simon’s argument might be used by Ruy and other Company shareholders.

  I swung my legs off the bed and sat up.

  ‘I must away to my bed, or I shall have a third night without sleep. Besides, poor Rikki will have given me up in despair.’

  ‘I took him for a walk earlier this evening,’ he said, ‘and invited him to stay with me until you came home, but he whined and scratched at your door until I let him into your room. I expect he feels the need to guard your belongings.’

  I laughed as I picked up my candle.

  ‘My only possession of value is that porcelain bowl of Drake’s, which I came by somewhat illegally. And the medallion Leicester gave me.’

  ‘Both valuable,’ he said. ‘And so is your horse.’

  ‘Fortunately, Hector is not required to live in my room. I bid you good night, Simon.’

  ‘God be with you,’ he said, as I closed the door softly, so as not to disturb the other lodgers.

  Rikki had no such inhibitions, leaping at me like a furry whirlwind and nearly knocking me over. I was accustomed to this when I had been obliged to leave him for a few hours and braced my shoulders against the wall i
n order to withstand the onslaught of his welcome.

  ‘Easy, lad,’ I said, trying unsuccessfully to dodge an enthusiastic licking. ‘I am home now. Did Simon feed you?’

  There was water in one bowl, and another was licked spotless, where I suspected Simon had fed him, although Rikki’s eager glances toward my hanging food cupboard implied that he thought it was high time for another meal. I had a cup of broth left over from the previous day, so I poured it over some stale bread and gave that to him, while I locked my door and drew the curtains before I changed into my night shift. That porcelain bowl which had once been Drake’s stood on the windowsill, next to the medal Leicester had given me. Not a personal medal, of course. One of many, lamenting his departure from the Low Countries. Beside them lay another object, of no value to anyone except to me. I picked it up and ran my thumb over the silky surface of the glossy wood. A simple figure of a seal, carved by a surly Spanish fisherman.

  Although my time with Simon had woken me up briefly, I was suddenly so tired that I could barely take the trouble to fold my clothes neatly for the morning. By the time I had crawled into bed, Rikki had finished his meal and leapt up beside me, even before I had blown out my candle. There had been no fire in my room all day and it felt damp and cold after the warmth in Simon’s room. I pulled my feather bed about my ears and fell asleep almost at once, glad of Rikki’s warmth against my back.

  But my sleep was troubled with dreams of snow and bitter cold, and a strange dark land full of cruel-faced savages.

  The following morning held more promise of spring than we had yet experienced. Although my sleep had been haunted by those strange dreams, I seemed to have recovered from the mind-numbing fatigue that had nearly sent me to sleep over the dinner table at the Lopez house. I walked briskly east along the river bank toward the hospital, with Rikki frisking about me, discovering new and intriguing smells to investigate every few yards. At the gatehouse to St Thomas’s, I found Tom Read, the gatekeeper, perched on a stool and enjoying the thin sunshine. His elderly wolfhound, Swifty, was stretched out on the cobbles at his feet. There was not much sign of swiftness about the old dog to be seen now, but Tom assured me that in his youth he had been remarkable.

  ‘Fine morning, Dr Alvarez,’ Tom said, grinning up at me. He had the end of a pie in his hand and broke off a piece for Rikki, who took it delicately between his lips, then lay down beside Swifty. He was trained now to know that he would spend the day with Tom and Swifty while I was at work in the hospital.

  ‘Aye,’ I said, ‘though perhaps a little chilly for sitting outside.’

  ‘It won’t be for long. There’s a load of firewood to be delivered from Kent, coming in this morning. And three crates of hens from Bermondsey, that’ll need moving into the chicken yard.’

  ‘A busy morning you’ll have then.’

  I gave him a grin, and made my way into the hospital. St Thomas’s was more like a village than a single institution for the treatment of the sick and the housing of the elderly and infirm. There were important workshops on the premises, left over from the days when this had been an abbey with a reputation for fine craftsmanship. They still supplied skilled work in wood and stone carving, in the printing and binding of books, and perhaps most notably in the making of exquisite stained glass, famed even beyond England. Adam Batecorte, a soldier I had first known on the Portuguese expedition, had been taken on as a labourer in the glass works, but had recently begun to learn how to work the glass himself.

  The hospital had its own orchards and vegetable gardens, a fish-pond, poultry yard, beehives, piggery and small dairy herd. We could not feed ourselves entirely, but our own produce helped to keep our costs down, something which was a constant worry to Roger Ailmer, Deputy Superintendent of the hospital, who ran its day-to-day affairs.

  When I reached the lying-in ward endowed by Richard Whittington, I was relieved to find that the woman who had seemed on the threshold of death the previous day was much recovered. She had lost that gaunt, grey look and her eyes no longer seemed to be staring at something she could see beyond this earthly world.

  ‘She has eaten a little porridge with cream this morning,’ Goodwife Appledean murmured, after I had finished my examination. She was the senior midwife, competent and trustworthy. ‘And she slept well.’

  ‘The babe?’

  I turned to the wicker cradle beside the bed. The baby was very large, while the mother was slender-hipped, the source of our trouble in the delivery.

  ‘He is beginning to be restless. He has not wanted to feed yet, the poor mite was as exhausted as his mother, but I think we might try now.’

  I left them to it, while I visited my child patients in the adjacent ward. With the passing of winter there were fewer cases now of chest and throat complaints, but April is a hungry time of year, when winter supplies are exhausted and the new season’s food not yet available. Spring may seem full of promise, but for the poor it can be a wretched time. There were many pauper families in Southwark, and amongst them the man of the family must always have the best of the food. If his strength fails, he cannot support his family and all will perish. That is the principle by which they live, though I knew many families in the neighbourhood where the woman earned more, and more reliably, than the man. Aye, and kept house, cooked, cleaned, cared for the children, too. There were some families where the woman was the only earner, while the man spent her wages in the tavern and their children ran half naked and hungry in the streets.

  At least the children admitted to St Thomas’s were fed well and given clothes from our store of charitable gifts. None of these garments were new, but they were whole and clean. Some of the waifs were in a pathetic state, flaccid skin holding together fragile bones and very little flesh. I would keep such cases in the hospital longer than Ailmer altogether approved, refusing to turn them away until they showed some signs of recovered health.

  Today all my young charges were in good spirits, none giving me concern, so I spent much of the day assisting on the other wards, especially the men’s. There were always many – too many – cases of injury amongst the Southwark labourers, for they worked at some of the harshest and most dangerous trades. I was surprised to see a familiar face amongst the patients.

  ‘Adam!’ I said, ‘what are you doing here? I hope you are not seriously injured.’

  Adam Bellacorte gave me a sheepish grin, holding out a badly blistered palm.

  ‘My own fool fault, doctor,’ he said. ‘I am learning to carry the blowpipes with the molten gather from the furnace to the blow-man, then act as his assistant while he spins the glass into a sheet. Idiot that I am, I went to pick up a blowpipe without putting on the thick glove we use. I was thinking about how soon we should have our midday break, for it was very hot in the glass works, and I let my attention slip.’

  I examined his hand. It was a nasty burn and must be very painful, but was not at bad as it might have been.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, seeing my expression. ‘When I dropped the blowpipe – and ruined the glass – one of the journeymen grabbed my arm and thrust my hand into a bucket of water. It must have slowed the burning.’

  I salved his hand and bandaged it.

  ‘Keep it clean and come back tomorrow,’ I said. ‘In a day or two it will be best left open to the air. I’m afraid you will have a scar.’

  Instinctively, my fingers closed over my own scarred left palm.

  ‘I hope I suffer no worse than that,’ he said grimly. ‘I must see the master when I go back. Say a prayer for me, that I may not be dismissed for my stupidity.’

  ‘He’s a fair man,’ I said, ‘and everyone makes mistakes when they are learning. Apologise and do what work you can with your left hand to show that you are anxious not to lose your place.’

  ‘Aye, that’s best.’

  He went off, trying to look cheerful, but I knew he must be in considerable pain, though he refused anything to ease it.

  That evening I had yet another supper engageme
nt, though it was one I had accepted much more readily. These days I did not often see my former mathematics tutor, Thomas Harriot, but I was always glad of his company. Moreover, he did not mind Rikki coming with me to the suite of rooms he currently occupied in a wing of Durham House, Raleigh’s fine mansion on the Strand, overlooking the Thames.

  I was the only guest, so we dined informally at a small table beside the fire in a room crowded with tottering piles of books and strewn with papers covered with diagrams and calculations. We shared a love of puzzles and ciphers, which had led (inadvertently) to Harriot recommending me for Walsingham’s service when I was but sixteen. He had also introduced me to optics and tutored me in both optics and the theory of harmony as well as mathematics. To some, such subjects may seem dull or baffling or a kind of magic, but they are not. Those early explorers of the Muscovy Company would have lost themselves forever amongst the fogs and ice flows of the uncharted north, had they not understood celestial navigation, which is based on mathematics. Even after nearly forty years of those perilous voyages, such knowledge was a matter of life and death.

  That evening we talked a little of Harriot’s latest attempts to map the face of the moon, but after we had eaten and played some music together, Harriot poured us each a glass of wine and our conversation turned to the topic which was now often on men’s lips.

  More and more, as Lord Burghley had became enfeebled with age, his younger son, Sir Robert Cecil, was undertaking the burden of his father’s work as the Queen’s most valued counsellor. The old order was passing. Leicester dead soon after the victory over the Armada, my father the following year, Walsingham only weeks ago, Burghley worn out with age, and – although his mind was as sharp as ever – Hector Nuñez, growing visibly weaker ever since our ordeal on the Portuguese expedition.

  ‘Essex continues to parade about the City and the Court,’ I said grimly, staring into my wine as I swirled it about in the glass. ‘Attended by his band of undisciplined followers. It’s clear, even to the common citizen like me, that the struggle for power will now be between Essex and Robert Cecil.’