The
Secret World
of
Christoval Alvarez
Ann Swinfen
Shakenoak Press
Published in Great Britain by Shakenoak Press, 2014
Copyright © Ann Swinfen 2014
First Kindle Edition
Ann Swinfen has asserted her moral right under the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified
as the author of this work.
All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than
that in which it is published and without a similar condition
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
For
Tegan, Kiana, Julius, Sophia and Raphael
Chapter One
I was washing alembics when he came. Often, in the months and years that followed, I wondered how things might have turned out, had I been away from home. My father had been summoned to one of his private patients and I had pleaded to go with him to the great man’s house, for I had never even stepped over the threshold of the mansion in the Strand, but the winter had been severe, we were short of many remedies, and I must stay at home and wash the alembics so that we might spend the evening distilling. I did not like being alone in the house, with the dark afternoon heavy in the sky outside, and chill draughts plucking at the back of my neck like the unforgiving fingers of the dead. The old timbers of the house swayed and creaked and moaned in the wind.
My father entrusted the delicate glass vessels, so costly to replace, to no one but me. His own hands had grown unsteady with age and our maid Joan could shatter an earthenware pitcher on the far side of the room merely by looking at it. So I had heated water over the fire until it was hot to the touch, but bearable, and poured it into the big basin which was used only for the instruments of our profession. From a pot on the windowsill I scooped out half a handful of the grey soap, the consistency of soft cheese, and stirred it into the steaming water.
It was cold in the kitchen, and for a moment I closed my eyes and enjoyed the warmth soothing my hands and the smell of the lavender and rosemary oils I mixed with the soap. Then I lowered the first alembic into the water and wiped it over with a rag, dipping and pouring until the tubes and nozzles were clean. Rinsed free of soap (for no foreign body must contaminate our remedies), it stood draining on the wooden table while I picked up the next one.
The row of four was drying on the table as I lifted the heavy basin across to where my father had contrived a drain to run out through the wall and empty into the street outside. The sudden rush of water sometimes gave passers-by a soaking. It was just as I poured the water away that I heard the running footsteps approaching our door. I glanced around fearfully. Joan was away at the market and my father would not return for an hour or more. There was nowhere to hide. The water pouring out of the house would have given away my presence. And I had lit a candle, the better to see my work, even though it was not yet dark outside. The room was illuminated like a play at one of the indoor playhouses, the candlelight reflected off the glass vessels, gleaming warmly on the dark oak of table and benches, chest and cupboard. I had no time to retreat to the inner parlour.
We do not readily open our doors to strangers, the people of my nation.
I saw a blur as someone ran past the window, then he was pounding on the door and crying out something incoherent.
So I must answer. On such trivial matters may a life turn, to follow a new road – to heaven or hell? Who knows? All I knew at the time was that I did not want to answer, and I wished my father were there.
When I opened the door, the boy blew in on a gust of bitter January air, bringing with him the blood-stench of Smithfield market round the corner and the piteous cries of the beasts awaiting slaughter in the Shambles. I had to lean my shoulder against the door to close it, for it was a poor thing of nailed boards that bellied in the wind like a ship’s sail. All the while I struggled with it, he was doubled up, gasping, his hand pressed against his side.
‘Poison!’ he cried at last.
I looked him up and down. He was flushed with running, a boy about the same age and height as I, but with a breadth in the shoulder that foretold he would grow taller, while I would not.
‘You are not poisoned,’ I said brusquely. ‘You have run too far and overtaxed your strength.’
He shook his head angrily. ‘Not me, you fool! I am sent to fetch Dr Alvarez to the Marshalsea where a prisoner is taken ill. The keeper says it must be poison, for he is one of those taken up for the Romish faith and they will contrive all sorts of remedies against torture and execution, even poison.’
I let him wait, for I did not take kindly to being called a fool.
‘My father is not here,’ I said.
‘Then you must fetch him.’
‘He has gone with Dr Nuñez to attend on Lord Burghley. He is not to be fetched away from the Lord Treasurer to some traitorous prisoner in the Marshalsea.’
He straightened up at last and looked at me somewhat piteously. His face was delicate, almost feminine, white now, and exhausted.
‘Have you run all the way from the Marshalsea?’ I asked curiously, wondering why he should care enough to do so. ‘Do you work at the prison?’
‘No!’ He reddened. There was real anger and pride in his eyes. ‘I am a player, in Master Burbage’s company, the Earl of Leicester’s Men. But the keeper’s sister rents the boarding house where I lodge, and she has been good to me. There was no one else to send.’
I placed him now. He was one of those boy players who act the women’s parts until their beards sprout and their voices deepen. His voice was still light and sweet, now that he had regained his breath; he would serve their turn yet awhile. Stepping aside, I picked up my leather satchel from the chest against the wall and began filling it with boxes and phials from the cupboard hanging above. The wind cutting in below the door sliced through my ankles as viciously as though I wore no hose, so I buttoned on my doublet of plain padded fustian and caught up my cloak from a peg in the wall.
The boy stared at me. ‘What are you about?’
‘I will come in my father’s stead.’
‘You’re nothing but a boy!’
‘I have watched and helped my father since childhood,’ I said coldly. ‘I have been his assistant physician at the Hospital of St Bartholomew for two years now.’
‘You! How old are you?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘The same as I am. They won’t thank me for fetching a boy to do a physician’s work.’
I shrugged, standing there with my cloak round my shoulders and my satchel dangling from my hand.
‘Do you want my help or not?’
He gave me a troubled look and then sighed. ‘You’d best come.’
When I opened the door it tore itself from my hand and crashed against the wall, setting the bottles in the cupboard jingling together like the bells on a jester’s suit. More fool I, I thought, as I strained to pull it shut again, to set off walking halfway across London to a poisoned prisoner in the Marshalsea, with the winter dusk gathering and more snow on the way. The boy saw how the door strained against me and turned to help. Together we managed to pull it shut, and I locked it with the key I wore on my belt.