Bartholomew Fair (7 page)

The crowd milled around the tables, then resolved itself into small groups. Glancing up, I saw Dr Stephens approaching us. We both stood and bowed. Peter offered his stool to the elderly physician, while I fetched another from beside the inn door. Once we were all seated, Dr Stephens turned to me.

‘I was sorry to hear that you had lost your father, Christoval. He was a good man, though we did not always see eye-to-eye.’

I thanked him, recalling with a rueful smile, how often they had bickered over the treatment of a patient, though I knew that they had always respected one another.

‘And I have now lost my place at Bartholomew’s,’ I said. This was stating something he knew as well as I did, but I was curious to see how he would respond.

‘Aye, well,’ he said, looking a trifle uncomfortable. ‘You have no degree in medicine, you are not a Fellow of the Royal College. Your position was as your father’s assistant. Indeed, it was not even certain whether you would return from Portugal. It was necessary for the governors to make other appointments quickly. I could not carry on alone, with none but my own assistant. In fact, I had already reduced my hours at the hospital.’

I longed to ask how things had been managed while my father was in his last illness, but this was not the time.

‘And how do you find the new physician?’ I asked. ‘Dr –’ I glanced at Peter.

‘Dr Temperley,’ he supplied.

‘A sound man,’ Dr Stephens said, with a certain air of complacency. ‘A sound man. Oxford, you know. A university man, and a Fellow, as I am, of the Royal College.’ He stroked his beard, with the air of a man well content with himself. ‘Dr Temperley has been practising in a provincial hospital – Norwich, I believe – but has now made the move to London.’

I felt the stirrings of anger beginning to bubble up in me. My father had been the senior professor at the university of Coimbra, with a reputation that drew students from all over Europe to study under him, until the Inquisition drove us from our home. His skill in both conventional and Arabic medicine far surpassed that of Stephens, and no doubt of this Temperley fellow as well, still mired as they were in the out-dated theories of centuries past. Perhaps it was as well that I could not do as Walsingham had suggested, and study for a degree. I should probably find myself thrown out of the university on my ear for my unconventional views. I do not always find it easy to keep my tongue behind my teeth.

As if he suspected what was going through my mind, Peter touched me lightly on the elbow and began to talk about the wedding and the fine crop of apples and pears growing here in this little orchard behind the inn. I swallowed hard and managed to join in, as if there were no more important matter in the world.

When he had eaten his fill, Dr Stephens got to his feet somewhat stiffly and said he must be going.

‘And what will you do now, Christoval?’ he said, as though it had only just occurred to him that I might still have my living to earn, even though I was cast out from St Bartholomew’s. ‘Do you still find work in the office of Sir Francis Walsingham?’

Everyone at the hospital had known that I worked there as a code-breaker, for whenever there was a glut of work in Phelippes’s office, Sir Francis would arrange for me to be released from my duties at the hospital. This, perhaps, had annoyed Dr Stephens in the past, and he was hinting at it now. What neither he nor anyone else at St Bartholomew’s knew was that I had undertaken work of a very different, and often dangerous, nature for Walsingham.

‘Aye,’ I said. ‘I have been doing some work for Sir Francis since I returned. However, I do not intend to abandon my work as a physician. Sir Francis is hoping to help me find a position, either back at St Bartholomew’s or else at St Thomas’s. I hope to hear something before the end of summer.’

Dr Stephens looked somewhat disconcerted at this. Having happily seen his hospital slip back into its old traditional ways, he would probably not welcome me again with my advanced foreign notions.

‘Ah, indeed,’ he said. ‘Well, I wish you every success.’

He bowed to us and walked away.

‘Do you really think you might come back to Barts?’ Peter asked. ‘It would be like old times.’

Not quite, I thought, without my father’s guidance.

‘Nay.’ I laughed. ‘I said that only to ruffle his comfortable feathers a little. The governors have filled all the places, I believe. Sir Francis thinks there might be a place at St Thomas’s. I am waiting to hear.’

The crowd of guests was beginning to thin and the heat had turned sultry, as though there might be a storm in the offing.

‘Come,’ I said. ‘We haven’t given William and Liza our gift yet.’

Peter and I had shared the cost of two fine glass goblets as a marriage gift, and I had been carrying them all day, carefully wrapped in cloth, in my satchel. I would be glad to be rid of them before they broke. And their cost was yet another debt I owed to Sara. We made our way over to where the couple were sitting on a bench under an arch of roses, looking shy and very self conscious. I unwrapped the pair of glasses which, to my relief, were still intact.

William struggled to stand, leaning on his crutch, but I laid my hand on his shoulder to keep him seated.

‘No need to rise for friends,’ I said. ‘Peter and I thought these might come in useful when you broach a bottle of French wine.’

We all laughed. Such a likelihood was small.

‘Or,’ I added, judiciously, ‘for the excellent ale I am sure Liza makes.’

‘Nay,’ she said, blushing, ‘I am a poor ale wife. Even Bess rarely makes ale nowadays. We City wives are too occupied with business.’ As she said the word ‘wives’, she blushed even deeper, and William smiled at her like one besotted.

Others were coming with congratulations and gifts, so we both kissed the bride and made our way out of the inn. Before we parted, we stood a moment in Eastcheap, where the heat seemed to rise up from the ground as if it were a bake stone.

‘A storm before morning, I reckon,’ Peter said.

‘Aye. It will clear the air. But let us hope it does not spoil the Fair. Only four days to go.’

‘These summer storms don’t last long, as a rule. Are you still planning a party to visit the Fair?’

‘Aye. You. Me. Anne Lopez and her brother Ambrose. He is walking out with the daughter of one of his grandfather’s colleagues, so she may come as well.’

‘Five of us, then.’

‘Would you like to bring someone else?’

He avoided my eye and shuffled his feet.

‘Peter!’ I said with a laugh. ‘Who is she?’

‘Well,’ he said, hesitating, ‘there is a daughter of one of the senior apothecaries. Master Winger, do you remember? Mistress Helen Winger. I have spoken to her a few times, but I’ve never asked her to walk out. She might think it too forward of me. Or her father might.’

‘But he could have no objection to this,’ I said. ‘A large party. Ambrose is older than we are and the grandson of the Queen’s Purveyor of Groceries and Spices. Very respectable. Mention that.’

He laughed. ‘Very well, I will. Aye, I will. There can be no harm in a large party strolling about the Fair together. It will do excellently.’

‘It will do perfectly,’ I said. ‘I will send you a note when everything is arranged – where and when we should meet. You still have a room at the hospital?’

‘Aye. My little attic up under the roof.’

It was hard to credit it now, seeing Peter as a competent young apothecary, but he had come originally to St Bartholomew’s as an orphan, to work as a servant. One of the older apothecaries had realised how clever and promising the boy was and taken him under his wing. Peter had worked hard to reach his present position. He would soon be fully qualified. I hoped the girl he had set his eye on was good enough for him. He was an old friend and it would be a fine thing to see him properly established at last.

We walked together through the City to Cheapside, until I turned north to Wood Street and Peter continued west toward Newgate and Smithfield. As we parted, I heard the first far off rumble of thunder.

It rained for two days and three nights, a cold downpour, the rain sheeting down the windows solid as a river, the streets awash with all the refuse afloat from gutters and kennels. Sara loaned me a hooded cloak of her own, which reminded me that I should need one myself before winter came, as well as a physician’s cap and gown if Sir Francis managed to find me a place at St Thomas’s. I had carried both cloak and gown with me on the expedition, but they were long gone, torn into strips to make bandages for the wounded.

Each morning I made my way, head down, across the City to Seething Lane, and despite the cloak I was soaked through by the time I arrived. For once I was glad of the summer fire in Phelippes’s office, standing and steaming before it, like a ruff steaming with a crimping iron. I was glad, too, of my new boots, which kept out every bit of wet. I would recommend Liza’s cordwainer’s skills to anyone who valued a fine pair.

There had been no more trace of the new agent, David, though Sir Francis had authorised increased vigilance at the ports. This had led to the discovery of two barrels containing smuggled papist books. A merchant and several sailors were now kicking their heels in the Marshalsea prison, awaiting trial. I felt somewhat guilty, in case my suggestion of watching the ports had resulted in their arrest. I understood why the Queen and Privy Council were anxious to arrest the Catholic priests who flooded into the country from the training seminary at Rheims. The men were prepared there not merely to minister to Catholic families in England, and celebrate the mass with them. They were also trained to make new converts and to foster rebellion against the State. Several had, in the past, been involved in plots to assassinate the Queen.

However, I did not feel as strongly about Catholic books as some did. It seemed to me that what people read in the privacy of their own homes was not the business of the Privy Council. This was not, however, an opinion shared by the great men, including the one I worked for. To them, a papist book was as dangerous as a papist sword. Perhaps they were right. At least on this subject I was wise enough to keep my peace. I could understand Sir Francis’s strong feelings. He had been trapped in a house in Paris with his young family while all around the slaughter of Protestants filled the streets with blood. I knew it had marked him for life. He had even, in a moment of unusual intimacy, shared his feelings with me.

If David or any other spy had entered the country with the crowds coming to the fair, he had passed unnoticed. It could be that the name ‘David’ concealed some other identity. Many of Sir Francis’s own intelligencers assumed false names, sometimes a whole handful of them. If David was indeed a man known under some respectable true name, possibly even owning an official passport which allowed him to travel freely, then he could come and go as he pleased. No official at a port would detain him.

During those dark, damp days, Phelippes and I worked our way through the large bundle of letters and despatches, which contained little out of the ordinary. They brought us up to date on the movement of Spanish and French agents, and contained some names of new young men arriving at the seminary in Rheims. The letters from Rome were from our own intelligencers, who managed to stay well informed of the activities of the Pope and the College of Cardinals, thanks to some informers amongst the papal servants. There was even one brief despatch from the agent we knew only as ‘Hunter’, still held in the Lisbon prison, but apparently unharmed after our blundering expedition, and still able (we knew not how), to smuggle his letters out to us through a network of allies and friends.

‘How I hate this rain!’ I exclaimed to Phelippes, in the afternoon of the second day of storm. ‘I was glad of it at first, for everything was hot and dry and dirty, but we have surely had enough by now. It is as dark as night.’

We had both been obliged to light candles to see our work. Only the best beeswax were good enough, and I was conscious of the cost.

Phelippes looked up vaguely. In the general way of things, I do not think he took much notice of the weather, unless it had some effect on the working of the service.

‘Aye, it is dark.’ He seemed surprised. ‘What o’clock is it?’

He had removed his glasses, as usual, for close work, and could not see across the room to the mantel clock Sir Francis provided for us.

‘Not yet three o’ the clock. If the rain continues as heavily as this, the whole of Smithfield will turn to mud and the Fair will be quite ruined.’

Now that I had decided to go, I was somewhat put out. I should be sorry to miss the entertainment. When I lived secluded with my father, I had rarely had the chance to enjoy simple pleasures, except for occasional visits from my mathematics tutor, Master Harriot, who came to Duck Lane sometimes to make music with us. It was to Harriot that I owed several visits to the group which met in the turret room of Raleigh’s home, Durham House, to discuss matters of exploration, new discoveries, and natural science. My friendship with Simon Hetherington had introduced me to the haphazard world of the players, but I had ventured neither to Durham House nor to the company of players since my return to London.

Now that I was beginning to grope my way toward a new life, without my father and without my employment at the hospital, I still felt somewhat at sea, and the idea of belonging to a party of young people, making a visit to the Fair like any other group of Londoners, gave me a tentative sense of belonging, of finding my feet in this new life. I should be sorry if it fell through.