The Portuguese Affair (2 page)

The inevitable outcome was that our wards at St Bartholomew’s Hospital were overflowing, not only with the usual winter ailments but with the destitute poor, lingering just this side of starvation. My code-breaking services were not needed, it seemed, by Thomas Phelippes in his office at Walsingham’s house in
Seething Lane, for which I was mostly grateful, but it meant that I knew no more than any other citizen about affairs of state. In my more honest moments, I admitted to myself that I missed being part of that knowledgeable coterie, aware of all the beating secrets at the heart of the nation. Besides, I needed to know what Poley was up to.

One day in February I left the hospital early on an errand for my father. Our friend and fellow Portuguese exile, Dr Nuñez, usually obtained his medicines from an apothecary near his home in Tower Ward, but with all the sickness in the city, even amongst his noble patients, some supplies were running short, so he had sent a message to my father, hoping he might be able to spare some medicines from the hospital stores. We had our own apothecaries, including my friend Peter Lambert, who made up the package for Dr Nuñez.

‘I can deliver it for you, Kit,’ Peter said.

‘Nay
,’ I said. ‘I thank you, but you have been working since dawn and should have a rest before supper. I’ve finished with my patients for today.’

It was not altogether unselfish of me, for I had a plan of my own in mind. I stopped briefly at our house in
Duck Lane, where I pocketed a couple of rather withered late apples, and set off across the city. There had been no fresh snow for three or four days, but it was still lying deep in the streets. The traffic of men and horses had hammered it down in the centre of the roadways so that it was as slippery as solid ice, stained with horse droppings which lay on the surface or were encased within a frozen cage, like unsavoury flies in amber. I kept to the edges of the streets where the snow was less densely packed, but even here it was slippery, except in front of the better houses or shops, where servants or apprentices had been set to clear a space.

Despite the cold, I was quite warmed from my brisk walking by the time I reached the Nuñez house, where Beatriz Nuñez insisted on inviting me in for hot ale and a sweet bun. When I could leave with politeness I made my way quickly around the corner to the stableyard of Walsingham’s house in
Seething Lane, where – as I had hoped – I ran into the stable lad Harry.

‘Come to see Hector, have you, Master Alvarez?’ he asked, when he saw that I had turned, not to the backstairs which led up to Thomas Phelippes’s office and my old desk, but to the stable where I knew I would find my favourite amongst Walsingham’s horses.

‘Aye.’ I grinned at him. ‘There’s no hiding anything from you, Harry. How is Hector?’

‘Missing you,
I daresay.’ He returned the smile, knowing full well how I felt about the ugly piebald who had served me well on several missions for Walsingham.

Harry lifted the bolt for me on the tightly closed stable door, for the horses needed protection in this bleak weather, and followed me in as I went to Hector’s stall. He perched himself on a saddle stand, ready to gossip, as I had hoped he would. It would save me tackling Phelippes. As I caressed Hector’s neck and scratched him between the ears, Harry gave me all the latest news of Seething Lane – how the lads had been given a day off to go skating over in the frozen Kent marshes, how the washerwoman had given birth to twins and miraculously both had lived.

‘Moll says it’s because she’s so strong, from heaving pails of water and lye, and great buck-baskets full of wet linen,’ he said. ‘Her babies were bound to be strong.’

‘Boys or girls?’ I said, holding one of the apples on my palm so Hector could lift it softly with his velvet lips.

‘One of each. She’s called the boy Francis in honour of Sir Francis and called the girl Bess after the Queen.’

He chattered on while I gave Hector the second apple and he blew affectionate juice into my ear.

‘And what of all the backstairs coming and going?’ I said casually. The stable lads never missed anything.

‘The usual. That Kit Marlowe was about here last week, him you don’t like.’

I gave him a startled look. I hadn’t realised the lads had even noticed that. He gave me a cheeky grin.

‘Oh, never fear. I’ll say nothing to Master Phelippes or Sir Francis.’

‘I’d rather you did not. It is a private matter, nothing to do with Seething Lane. Marlowe has insulted me more than once.’

‘Arrogant bastard,’ Harry said dispassionately.

I saw that I would need to ask him outright if I was to get the information I wanted.

‘Have you seen anything of that fellow who was in the Tower?’ I said, making my voice as casual as I could and keeping my back to him. ‘Poley, was he called? I wonder if he’d dare show his face around here again.’

‘Oh, him.’ Harry spat into the straw. ‘Aye, he was here, two-three weeks ago. Master Phelippes has sent him off to the Low Countries with despatches. He can’t do much harm there.’

It seemed Harry shared my doubts of Poley, but it would be wiser to probe no further. Our talk turned to other matters, and when Harry went off to his supper, I bade Hector an affectionate farewell and left, dropping the bolt on the door as I went.

Soon after the defeat of the Spanish fleet, a remark made by the Lord Admiral Howard had been discussed everywhere amongst our community. He had said that now was the time to invade
Portugal and defeat the Spanish. All the older men amongst our Marrano people seemed carried away on a wave of expectation and excitement. At last the chance had come to return to their homeland, to restore Dom Antonio to the throne – Dom Antonio of the royal house of Aviz, claimant to the lost crown. We would drive the Inquisition, together with the Spanish, out of our country. Then Portugal, that great nation, once a power in the world, with colonies to east and west, with ships trading on every sea, and above all with tolerance of the Jewish faith, would rise again; the Golden Age of a century before would be restored.

Part of their argument was based on the ancient Anglo-Portuguese Alliance, ratified two hundred years ago when John of Gaunt’s daughter married the king of Portugal, but dating back more than two hundred years before that. The alliance of perpetual friendship had begun when
England helped Portugal to drive out the Moors, but it had been strengthened in the days when Portugal was the greater power, home of seafarers who explored all the world, discovering new lands. Back in those times, England was the lesser nation. Now the situation was reversed again and Portugal cried out for help from her ancient ally. And with such aid, Portugal would once again become great, free of her Spanish overlords. So they argued.

These were the old men’s dreams. We who were younger did not share them. Anne Lopez and I discussed it one day towards the end of winter when I was visiting them.

‘I am glad, Kit,’ she said violently, ‘
glad
that my proposed marriage to the banker of Lyons has been abandoned. I want to stay in London. My father talks of nothing but returning to Portugal in glory, as Dom Antonio’s chief adviser and courtier, but my mother is English and so am I. The Queen is going to pay for my brother Anthony to attend Winchester College. What interest have we in Portugal? It is nothing to me or my brothers and sisters.’

I nodded. ‘I have no wish to go back,’ I said. ‘My memories are too bitter.’

I did not tell her of unfinished business there, which filled me sometimes with hope, and sometimes with despair. And, always, there was the shadow of remembered terror.

‘Yet our fathers think differently,’ I said. ‘Even my father, after all he suffered, dreams these dreams of a free
Portugal.’

Anne’s mother Sara, too, shared her worries with me.

‘Ruy is drawn more and more into Dom Antonio’s affairs, Kit. He has poured every penny we possess into this expedition they are planning. Dom Antonio has pledged him fifty thousand crowns and five percent of the proceeds from the West African franchise when Portugal is freed, but what if the expedition fails? We will lose everything. Somehow they have even persuaded the Queen to invest five thousand pounds, but the greatest burden is being borne by Ruy and Hector Nuñez and my father and the others.’

‘Drake is a partner in the venture, is he not?’ I said. ‘And Sir John Norreys. The greatest sea captain and the greatest professional soldier.’

‘Drake,’ said Sara bitterly, ‘is a pirate. Everyone knows that whatever other men gamble and lose, Drake always manages to fill his pockets – nay, his very barns – with gold and precious stones. If there is profit to be made, Drake will find a way, and the freeing of Portugal will not be the first thing on his mind.’

Yes, Sara was bitter, but she had good cause. Ruy was prepared to thrown away everything in this venture, destroying her peace of mind and risking her future in her homeland of
England. She had never even trodden the soil of Portugal, for her father, Dunstan Añez, had come to London long ago. Like her brothers and sisters she had been born here and thought of herself as English.

I was also growing worried about my father. Ever since our long weeks caring for the sick and wounded after the Armada, I had watched him becoming older and more frail before my very eyes. Of late he had turned forgetful, setting down a tincture half made and wandering off to some other task, and then to another. More and more often in the hospital I had to conceal some business he had left unfinished and finish it myself before anyone noticed. I was terrified lest he should lose his position. If he did, would I retain mine? How would we live?

It was when he began to call me ‘Felipe’ that my heart clenched with alarm. For some time now I had suspected that he had forgotten that I was his daughter Caterina, and truly believed I was a son. Now his confusion grew as I seemed to become, in his mind, my long-lost brother somehow come back to him. There was no one I could confide in but Sara, and she had worries enough of her own. I kept my fears to myself, but the more I tried to seal them up in my heart, the more they grew like some monstrous cancer, eating me up from within.

One evening very early in that spring of 1589, I returned late from the hospital to find Dr Lopez seated with my father in our small parlour, with a jug of malmsey and glasses on the table, and their heads together. The glasses must be a gift – a bribe? – for we normally drank from pewter. They stopped speaking when I entered, like guilty boys cheating over their lessons. What could be afoot? I discovered soon enough.

‘Good evening to you, Kit,’ said Dr Lopez, with a little too much geniality.

‘Shalom.’ I helped myself to a glass of malmsey and sat down opposite them. ‘Have I interrupted a private conference?’

‘Not at all, not at all!’ said my father. His eyes were bright and he looked more like his old self than I had seen him for days.

‘The plans for the Portuguese venture are nearly complete,’ he said. ‘Drake will command the fleet, aboard his ship
Revenge
, while Dom Antonio and our Portuguese party will sail in his ship, the
Victory
. Altogether we will have a hundred and fifty ships, and an army of thirty thousand to land at Lisbon.’

‘And when we land,’ said Dr Lopez excitedly, ‘the oppressed people of our homeland will rise up and join us, proclaim Dom Antonio as king, and slaughter the Spaniards to a man.’

And proclaim you, I thought, the Lord Burghley of Portugal. I saw coronets glittering in his eyes, and ermine robes, and country estates, and wealth beyond measure. A fine pinnacle indeed for a man who had come as a penniless refugee to London, and once filled my father’s humble role as physician to the city’s destitute and homeless.

‘Father,’ I said, thinking it best to have it out in the open, ‘Father, you do not intend to join this expedition yourself, I hope? For you are hardly strong enough for such an undertaking.’

‘I am younger than Hector Nuñez,’ he said petulantly.

‘If your father is not well enough,’ said Dr Lopez smoothly, ‘you may come in his stead, Kit.’

‘I have no wish to return to Portugal.’

I tried to keep the fear out of my voice, and found that I was clutching my glass too tightly.
The bitter cold of the prison. The stench. The screams. My throat is raw with the screams. Lest I snap the stem, I forced myself to ease my grip on the glass.

‘Ah, but you might wish to follow the success of your father’s investment,’ said Lopez.

I felt my heart tighten in my chest till I could scarcely breathe.

‘Father? Surely you have not invested in the venture? We have little enough put aside.’

My father looked shifty, but Dr Lopez said smoothly, ‘Your father has kindly invested a thousand pounds, Kit, so you see, the success of our venture is of some interest to you after all.’

My hand flew to my mouth and I gasped in shock. The wine slopped over the rim of the glass and the stain of it spread over my knees. My father had handed over every shilling and groat we owned to this adventurer. Money painfully put aside over seven years, while we lived so shabbily and worked so hard. We had debts which must be paid – to apothecaries for supplies of herbs and other materials, to the butcher and fishmonger, to the alewife. I could scarcely hold back my tears, and when Lopez had left, I could restrain them no longer.