The Enterprise of England Page 5

  ‘You must be in the chinks, Guy!’ I said. ‘Best quality oranges.’

  He grinned at me. ‘I never can resist them. These are the first I’ve seen for months.’

  He paid the stallholder, then began to juggle the oranges, to the great entertainment of the passersby. Soon quite a crowd had gathered, but he pocketed the oranges, bowed, and led me away by the elbow. We found a seat on a table tomb in Paul’s churchyard, near the booksellers and not far from where Simon and I had stood on that cold February day to watch Sidney’s funeral procession. Guy handed me an orange and would not listen to my protests.

  ‘I am in the chinks, Kit,’ he said. ‘After a performance last week, a gracious lady sent for me to entertain her dinner guests by playing my lute and singing. I was well paid for it, though the lady wanted rather more of me than I was prepared to give, so I barely escaped with my virtue intact.’

  He winked at me and I grinned back, through my orange. Guy had a face like a friendly monkey and I did not believe a word of it. Not the last part, at any rate.

  ‘And where have you been hiding, Dr Alvarez?’ he said. ‘You are as elusive as fresh oranges.’ He only called me ‘Dr Alvarez’ when he wanted to tease me. At first the players had not believed I was a physician, but after giving a performance at the hospital last Christmas, they knew it was true.

  ‘Walsingham sent for me again,’ I said. ‘I have been working at Seething Lane as well as the hospital for weeks.’

  ‘So why are you let out now?’

  ‘Oh, since Drake returned, matters have been quieter.’

  ‘Then why have you not come to see us?’

  I did not answer at once, making much of wiping my face and fingers on my handkerchief and tossing my orange skin into the long grass.

  ‘Who is this Kit Marlowe?’ I burst out. ‘He seems to be a great friend of Simon’s.’ I had not meant to say it, and once the words were out of my mouth, I could not look Guy in the eye.

  ‘Ah, so you have met the great Kit Marlowe, have you? The golden son of Cambridge, poet extraordinary, would-be play maker. Was that at Walsingham’s?’

  I stared at him. ‘No. Certainly not. Why should I meet him at Walsingham’s?’

  ‘He is something of a protégé of Walsingham’s cousin Thomas. And I’ve heard it hinted that he sometimes works for Sir Francis himself.’

  ‘I’ve never seen him at Seething Lane.’ I felt my heart sink. Was this fellow likely to appear where I worked?

  I turned to Guy and studied him. ‘You don’t like him,’ I said.

  ‘I do not. He is arrogant, thinks too well of himself and too poorly of others. He also has a violent temper and has been in trouble for it. How did you come to meet him?’

  ‘It was at Sir Walter Raleigh’s house. Harriot took me there for one of Raleigh’s discussion evenings and Marlowe turned up there, very late, with no apologies, dragging Simon after him. He insulted me.’

  ‘That is no surprise.’

  ‘Is he a member of Master Burbage’s company, then?’

  ‘No, no. He’s much too fine a gentleman to join a ragbag of wastrels like us. Though I have heard tell he sometimes mixes with very low company indeed, thieves and ruffians. He’s only a cobbler’s son, but he gives himself airs, having been a scholar at Cambridge. No, he hangs about our company, hoping to sell us a play. And he’s taken lodgings with Thomas Kyd, perhaps in the hope of a recommendation.’

  ‘So why was Simon with him? They seemed very close.’ I tried to remember what I had seen. ‘At least, he was making much of Simon and wanted him to join in insulting me, though Simon looked embarrassed.’

  Guy grinned, and wiped his sticky fingers on his breeches.

  ‘Well, you have to admit that Simon is a very pretty boy, and Marlowe has a liking for pretty boys.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. But do not worry, I am sure Simon does not return the feeling.’

  ‘I do not worry. What is it to me what Simon feels?’

  ‘What indeed? And I am sure Marlowe will not hurt your friendship with Simon. He did not join in the insults, did he?’

  ‘He did not.’

  Guy got up and brushed fragments of moss and lichen from his clothes. ‘Come back with me now and see the company. We have missed you.’

  Here was another surprise. It seemed that the players also missed me. I had not realised that I had made so many friends, both at Seething Lane and at the Theatre. After years of hiding away, keeping to my father’s shadow, the last two years had changed my life.

  ‘Will Marlowe be there?’ I asked.

  Guy drew himself up to his full height, which was slightly less than mine, and struck himself on the chest with a grand gesture.

  ‘If he is, I will protect you with my life!’

  I laughed and followed him out of the churchyard.

  When we reached the Theatre, outside the north wall of the city, past the Curtain playhouse and near Finsbury Fields, we found most of the company there but, happily, no Marlowe. They were about to start a rehearsal of some new comic piece, one of those full of jokes of the moment, which would be stale in six months’ time. It would please the groundlings and earn the players enough coin to live, but it was the kind of trivial thing my father looked down on. Despite my urging, he had still not come to see any of the newer, more serious plays the company performed, like those of Thomas Kyd. I wondered what sort of play Marlowe was writing. Probably as full of bombast as he was.

  In the rehearsal Guy capered and tumbled, Simon simpered as a love-lorn maiden, and Christopher Haigh (who played the young lover parts) postured as a noble shepherd who was really a long-lost prince. There were a great many jeers at King Philip and his admiral Santa Cruz and some clumsy double entendres concerning burning ships. Burbage stopped the players from time to time in order to rearrange them on the stage or change some of the words. A young boy, who was playing one of the minor women’s parts, was told off for striding about the stage like a man and looked as though he would burst into tears. Afterwards, I saw Simon take him aside and show him how to walk, taking small steps and keeping his hands clasped in front of his, so that he would not be tempted to let his arms swing loosely at his sides.

  ‘It will be easier once you are in costume,’ Simon said. ‘In a farthingale and skirt you will find that your legs are so hampered you are forced to take small steps, just to avoid tripping up.’

  I smiled to myself. I knew he was quite right. When I had first changed into boy’s attire at the age of twelve, I had discovered how much easier it was to move than when I had worn skirts, especially those for evening or festive wear, which were heavy and stiff with embroidery and pearls. I could not imagine ever abandoning my breeches for skirts again.

  ‘Kit!’ Simon had just noticed me, sitting in the lowest tier of seats and watching the rehearsal. He climbed up and sat down next to me.

  ‘You are a stranger here in the playhouse.’

  There was a note of reproof in his voice, so I repeated my explanation to Guy of how busy I had been.

  ‘Though it is not so long since we met,’ I said. ‘You will recall an evening at Sir Walter Raleigh’s. You were there in company with your new friend – what was it he was called?’ I spoke with all the indifference I could muster.

  ‘Kit Marlowe,’ he said, looking uncomfortable. ‘He knows Raleigh. He knows many great men.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘And he thought I would be interested to accompany him.’

  ‘Oh? Was that it? I thought perhaps he wanted you there to witness how he vaunted himself before those same great men. To applaud his performance.’

  ‘He was abominably rude to you. I’m sorry.’ He was now looking even more shame-faced. ‘And I thought your explanation of the mathematics of celestial navigation most impressive.’

  ‘Not too much like a performing ape from the Indies? Or a blood-sucking Jew?’

  ‘It was unforgivable, what he said.’

&nbs
p; ‘You said nothing to chide him at the time. Nothing in my defence.’

  ‘I was taken aback. And before I could think of anything to say, he had hustled me away.’

  ‘Hmph.’ I was not quite ready to forgive him, but before we could say more we were summoned to join the others for supper at Burbage’s lodgings in Holywell Lane, which it seemed was his practice on the evening before the first performance of a new play. I was invited to eat with them. I did so readily, something I would never have dreamt of before last year.

  It was a good evening. Burbage’s wife Ellen sat down to eat with us, though she retired early. The players were in high spirits, for they were sure the comic piece would do well for the next few weeks. Full houses in the playhouse meant full bellies for players. Burbage’s landlady was an excellent cook and served up a substantial meal of fish in a sauce of capers, followed by roast beef and roast mutton, dressed with leeks and carrots, then a lemon syllabub garnished with candied peel. Afterwards we cracked nuts and Guy performed a ridiculous parody of a sentimental song with new words which would have been unrepeatable in polite company.

  It was growing dark as I walked home, but I was accustomed to that after my many late sessions working with Phelippes. Simon and Guy walked with me as far as their lodgings in Three Needle Street, and we parted on amiable terms. I walked the rest of the way in a happier frame of mind than I had known since that encounter with Marlowe.

  Although my own life had taken a turn for the better, there was disquieting news from the Low Countries. By the beginning of August the English garrison of the port of Sluys, an important strategic foothold on the coast, had been under siege for nearly two months. The Duke of Parma, King Philip’s brilliant military commander in the Spanish Netherlands, had kept them in a stranglehold, starving and worn down by constant bombardment. On the fourth of August they could hold out no longer and surrendered. News reached London a few days later. After the jubilation of Drake’s raid on Cadiz, it was dismaying news indeed.

  Initially Sluys had been defended by local men, but when Parma surrounded it, they had sent out an appeal to England and four companies of foot soldiers had courageously fought their way through the Spanish lines to their relief. It was clear that Parma was no longer directing his attention merely to suppressing the Dutch Protestants. He was aiming to seize ports which could be used as bases to attack England. Elizabeth sent Leicester with a large body of troops and ships to relieve Sluys but, characteristically, he failed to act. Despite enormous courage on the part of the garrison and the appeals to Leicester by their commander, Sir Roger Williams, no help came. A thousand men died. The garrison ran out of food and gunpowder, until in the end they were forced to surrender. The few remaining men were almost all wounded or maimed and Sir Roger himself left destitute.

  ‘You see how the Spaniard’s plans advance,’ Phelippes said to me, after recounting the sorry fate of Sluys. ‘With Sluys and Dunkerque Parma now has access to deep water harbours, eminently suitable for launching an attack on England. He will try to seize Flushing next – or Vlissingen, as the Hollanders call it.’

  ‘I was thinking more of the men who died there,’ I said sharply. ‘And of the few who survived. Dr Stephens says we will see many of them in the hospital when they reach London, if they do not perish on the way.’

  ‘Well, you must do your best to patch them up,’ he said, ‘for we shall need every able-bodied soldier we can scrape together to fight on board the ships of our navy.’

  ‘I thought we had no navy. Or little enough to match the Spanish.’

  Sir Francis must have overheard my last remark, for he came through the door as I was speaking.

  ‘Our royal navy is small, Kit, but the ships of the privateers are armed and well crewed, and we are busy requisitioning every merchant ship that can be adapted for fighting.’

  ‘I don’t suppose the merchants will be glad of it,’ I said, thinking of Dr Nuñez, whose ship had brought us from Portugal and who had recently lost another to Drake’s festival of fire.

  ‘No, they will not be glad of it and they will lose trade for all the time that the ships are in our hands, but a far worse future awaits them if we cannot assemble a navy of some sort. Our cannon foundries are working all day and all night, and gunsmiths, bowyers and fletchers are all at full stretch.’

  I remembered the ironworks I had seen last year in the Weald, where the men, stripped to the waist, had laboured beside hellish fires directing the molten metal into the moulds for cannon. In the heat of this August I wondered they did not die of the work. Perhaps they did. My own work, sitting in Phelippes’s office, quietly transcribing despatches, seemed feeble by comparison.

  Dr Stephens’s prediction about the wounded soldiers was soon proved right. It was said that there were around seven hundred survivors of the siege of Sluys, but some died before they could reach home. Most of the others ended up in St Bartholomew’s or across the river in Southwark at the hospital of St Thomas. They had been brought back to England in some of Leicester’s ships which had lingered offshore while he was too cowardly to go to their rescue during the siege. It was common knowledge that Leicester had men and weaponry enough to have lifted the siege, if he had acted. The soldiers, filthy, emaciated, bloody and in rags, were carried or limped up from the river steps to the hospital where we awaited them, shocked at their numbers and condition. There were so many that we had to put most of them on pallets on the floor until more beds could be brought in. Beds and pallets alike were crowded so close together in the wards that it was almost impossible to step between them.

  Despite their injuries, many of them grave, the men were pathetically grateful to have survived not only the siege but also the ending of it. Parma – generous for once – had allowed them to depart in safety, instead of taking them prisoner. Or worse. We all knew of occasions in the past when those surrendering to Spanish troops under a promise of fair treatment were immediately and indiscriminately slaughtered. These men were lucky to reach England alive, despite wounds or severed limbs, festering sores, head injuries or blindness. Perhaps Parma thought they would not survive to fight him again.

  For once, Phelippes admitted that my work at the hospital was more important than my work at Seething Lane.

  When the men were first brought in, I was in a small ward where we put women who have had difficult births and have been sent to us by the midwife. They were kept here away from the other patients, partly because my father believed that soon after giving birth a woman is vulnerable to infection, and partly because the crying of the babies would disturb the other patients. Dr Stephens poured scorn on the former idea, but supported the latter, having little fondness for squalling infants.

  ‘You will note,’ my father frequently pointed out to him, in one of their many arguments about my father’s advanced ideas, ‘that when the mothers are kept away from other illnesses, they are much more likely to survive childbirth.’

  Dr Stephens would snort in disbelief. ‘If God has ordained that a woman shall die, bringing forth in the pain which is rooted in Eve’s sin, nothing we can do will save her.’

  My father would smile and say, ‘You do not really believe that.’

  That day, however, they were both occupied in seeing to the new arrivals, so I tended to the women alone. I did not even have the assistance of the young apothecary, Peter Lambert, who was busy with the others preparing salves and poultices in vast quantities. When I had made the last of the women comfortable, I walked back through to the two main wards, which were filling up fast.

  It was a scene from a nightmare. I had never seen so many injured men in my life. Instead of two parallel rows of beds, well spaced, arranged along the two long walls of the ward, there were now four rows, the two outer ones infilled with straw pallets on the floor and two more rows of pallets down the centre of the room. Men were still being carried in and deposited on these. I realised that we were fortunate it was summer, for there would not have been enough blankets in
the entire hospital to cover them. As it was, there were no pillows or cushions for their heads. They simply lay where they were put down, on the lumpy straw palliasses which the hospital servants had stayed up all night to make.

  I walked over to my father, who was talking to the mistress of the nurses. She was a formidable woman of ample girth and iron will, but she was wringing her hands now, with tears in her eyes.

  ‘Dr Alvarez, we cannot care for so many,’ she said. ‘I have not nurses enough even to wash their faces. If you expect us to change dressings or clean wounds, it cannot be done.’

  ‘There is nowhere else for them to go, Mistress Higson,’ he said. ‘St Thomas’s is also full. We will all do as much as we can, and we will ask in the neighbourhood whether any of the goodwives can lend assistance.’

  ‘I cannot have strangers interfering,’ she objected. ‘They will do more harm than good. Of that you may be sure.’

  I left them to it and walked down to the far end of the ward to begin checking the patients. It was a sickening business. I had studied under my father since childhood and had worked as his assistant in the hospital for almost four years now, so I was accustomed to the grim sights a physician encounters every day. Yet I had never seen anything like this. It was the stench of festering wounds that struck me first, so that I found myself gagging. And the whole ward was filled with a low moaning, like a storm wind, scarcely human. Occasionally there was a sharp cry of pain and away at the far end of the room one voice babbled on and on as one man raged with fever.

  Peter came in with a tray, which he set down on the table just inside the door. It was loaded with fresh pots of salves and jugs of Coventry water.

  We looked at each other in dismay, both overwhelmed by what lay about our feet.

  ‘We’d best make a start,’ I said. ‘We’ll need more bandages.’