‘Master Harriot brought it to me, but he had heard it at Raleigh’s house. It is by John Dowland.’

‘But the variations were your own.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, if you tire of potions and poultices, I daresay we could find you employment, could we not, Master Burgess?’

I glanced round to see the fine gentleman I had encountered on my last visit to the theatre. He was smiling broadly.

‘If he can play the comic parts as well, you may find yourself out of employment, Guy.’

‘Never fear!’ I laughed. ‘If I had to stand up on that stage, before all those peering faces, I should faint from sheer terror. You are all a wonder to me. I shall stay with my potions and poultices.’

They laughed and clapped me on the back, then set about preparing for the afternoon’s play.

‘Come,’ said Simon, ‘I will find you a good position to watch the play.’

We went out on to the stage.

‘I meant it,’ I said. ‘I truly admire what you do.’

‘I think your father does not,’ he said. ‘He does not like me.’

‘He will change his mind. Give him time.’

‘And as for admiration, I did not know you were such a fine musician, Kit.’

I shrugged and smiled. ‘Music is a great consolation to me,’ I said. ‘My life has not always been easy, and music has comforted me. My old lute was left behind in Portugal, but almost the first thing my father bought for me in England was a new one. He is not a hard man, you known, but we have no one else. He worries for me.’

‘Well, you have others now. You have me as a friend.’ He squeezed my shoulder.

My heart was so filled with happiness I could not answer.

Chapter Nine

When I had spoken of not being expected to return to the hospital for another week, I had not meant that I intended to stay away from my work so long, whatever Sir Francis might have arranged with the governors. The next morning I was out of my bed, dressed and breaking my fast when my father came into the kitchen.

‘I am coming to the hospital today, Father,’ I said. ‘I only ever meant to take one day of holiday.’

He laid his hand on my head. ‘Good, good. I’m glad we are back to our old ways.’

I had told him of my visit to the Theatre and while he had said nothing to chide me, he still looked unhappy. One day I would take him there to see this new play that Kyd was writing. Simon had read me parts of it and I had every hope that if my father saw the serious subjects in the new plays, he might be weaned away from his disapproval of actors and theatres. I did not mention that I had played the lute for a group of these disreputable fellows.

‘Your services are certainly required at the hospital,’ my father said, as we set off companionably, each with a satchel of medicines. ‘Dr Stevens has broken his leg in two places, and will be unable to work for several weeks, so I have been alone on the wards.’

‘Oh, Father, why did you not say? I would have come yesterday if I had known.’

He smiled. ‘I think you had earned your holiday, however you chose to spend it, but I’m afraid the work will be hard until Dr Stevens returns.’

Jeremiah Stevens was the only other physician at St Bartholomew’s. An elderly man, properly trained (as he would have it) in the medical school at Oxford, he was constantly suspicious of my father’s foreign ways, his ‘modern’ Arabic medicine and his studies of Vesalius. The ancient works of Galen had been good enough for physicians down the centuries, and were good enough for Jeremiah Stevens. The anatomical studies carried out by surgeons in Italy for the last century – or longer – he regarded with contempt, as little better than licensed butchery. They had no relevance for a physician. As for the advanced studies of the Arabs, he shuddered at the thought of such heathenish practices.

Despite all this he was a good, kind man. His long experience had taught him much, so that while he maintained that he followed Galen to the letter, in fact he was often guided by his own instincts in the care of patients. However, he did practice bleeding in many cases, something my father disapproved of, and they had many polite arguments about its effectiveness. Underneath it all, they were good friends and respected each other. I am not quite sure what he thought of me. I was too young and unqualified to be worthy of serious notice, although I had worked with him as well as with my father for more than two years now.

‘Poor Dr Stevens,’ I said. ‘How did he manage to break his leg in two places?’

‘Slipped on a puddle of cooking fat spilled by his cook. Not a fall that would have troubled a younger man, but he is no longer young and his bones are growing brittle.’

‘When did it happen?’

‘Last Wednesday. His wife sent for me and I set the leg, but he will be confined to bed for some time.’

‘Did you bleed him?’ I asked with a grin.

‘I did not, despite his demands. I hope he does not attempt to do it himself.’

‘Do you think he might?’

‘Anything is possible with a man so obsessed.’

I laughed. Even at a distance the two of them would keep sparring.

‘So we must care for his patients as well as our own,’ I said.

‘Yes. And as he has not replaced his last assistant, it will mean long hours, I’m afraid, Kit.’

‘I do not mind, as long as Phelippes does not send for me as well.’

‘Indeed, I hope he does not.’

It was fortunate that there was no epidemic at the moment, however mild. We had not yet reached the heat of summer, which always brought typhus and the sweating sickness and – in the bad years – the plague. Food poisoning was also worst in hot weather, when meat and fish quickly turned rancid. In winter it was agues and congestion of the lungs. Childhood illnesses could strike at any time, but since the outbreak of measles we had been free of them. The spring and autumn weather was often the healthiest, though food shortages could occur in spring, as the last of the winter food supplies were used up and the new crops were not yet ready. Since we worked amongst the poor of the city, we sometimes found ourselves with cases of malnutrition on our hands at this time of year. It was generally the women and children who arrived at St Bartholomew’s, sometimes so weak they could hardly stand.

‘Why do they succumb first?’ I had asked my father when I began working with him. ‘Is it because their constitutions are weaker?’

He had shaken his head. ‘No, there is a simple explanation. When a family is short of food, it is always the man who is fed first. He is the head of the family and must take priority. He is also usually the breadwinner, so he must keep up his strength. In some families you will find that the woman comes next, as she must care for the others, so the children have nothing but the scraps and leavings. However, I have known many poor women who will starve themselves so that their children may eat.’

We had some of these malnourished poor at the moment, and as usual they were mostly women and children. Over the years the hospital had become accustomed to dealing with these cases and kept stores of food for the periods of spring shortage. With a week or two of nourishing soups and fresh bread, most of them made a good recovery, unless there was some other underlying illness, in which case the weakened body might give up its struggle to survive.

It was indeed a busy day at the hospital, which turned into a busy week. There were no very serious cases and no epidemics, just many of the usual minor injuries and infections, women suffering post-natal problems, workmen with gouged hands or broken limbs, and more of the victims of malnutrition. One of these was the mother of the baby who had been so ill with measles. She brought the baby with her, although he was well enough.