I nodded. ‘That is what Walsingham believes as well. And he says we must defeat them at sea.’

Andrew nodded, then regretted it and put a hand to his brow. ‘I forgot. I must not do that. Aye, your master is right. On land we have no hope. We trained soldiers are so few.’ He cast a look around at the patients lying on the floor. ‘A thousand fewer now. No, our only hope is our navy.’

‘And will you be posted on shore?’ I asked.

‘Oh, no. We will be aboard the ships, ready to fight if we can board theirs, though I expect most of the fighting will be a cannon shot apart. We’ll use our archers, of course, both to attack their crews and to shoot fire arrows. The rest of us have our muskets.’

I shivered. ‘And then it will be left to us to put you all back together again.’

He gave a grim smile. ‘Let us hope we both survive long enough to do just that.’

Chapter Five

It was the end of September before the hospital was back to normal. Perhaps fifty of the soldiers were sufficiently recovered to be sent home at the end of a week or two, but most needed to stay much longer. Some died and their bodies were either claimed by their families or else they went to a pauper’s grave in the old churchyard where once they had buried the monks who had inhabited the priory of St Bartholomew. A few of the soldiers who seemed at first to have nothing but minor injuries proved to have more serious troubles, internal injuries or prolonged sickness brought about by the long weeks of siege and starvation. Then there were those whose injuries were known to be serious from the start.

The first soldier I had treated was one of those who proved to have hidden problems. His leg began to heal almost at once, but a week had passed before he confessed to pains in his chest. He told us that he had been hit in the side by a large piece of stone struck off the ramparts by a cannon ball. He admitted to bruises, but only later did we discover that he had broken three ribs. He had endured severe pain in silence before we found the cause, and he remained with us for several weeks.

To my relief and joy, the young boy with the crushed hand recovered well. He would bear the scars all his life, but he regained almost the full use of his fingers, although the smallest one remained twisted. He was claimed by his grandmother, a tiny woman who barely reached my shoulder, but whose energy burst from her like sparks from a bonfire. She bore him away, alternately scolding him and hugging him, while the lad blushed and hung his head as he walked past his grinning fellows.

‘Did I not warn you, you great gormless lad?’ she was saying as they passed through the door. ‘Playing soldiers! Nothing good could come of it. You’ll come home with me and tend the cows. That hand of your will soon be strong enough for milking. Playing soldiers, indeed!’

They were gone before I could hear his reply, if he dared to open his mouth at all to break in on her affectionate scolding.

Peter looked at me and grinned.

Bess Winterly came every day to visit her brother and after a few days brought her son with her. The child was subdued at first, looking around at all the wounded soldiers with round eyes, but by his third or fourth visit he was chattering to them and sharing out the cakes and sweetmeats his mother carried in every day in her basket. Our patients were well fed at St Bartholomew’s, but it was plain, hearty fare. I never saw any of the men refuse Bess’s treats. I was surprised that she brought the child, but one day, when he was beside Andrew’s bed, learning how to weave a cat’s cradle with his fingers and a length of string, she explained.

‘I don’t want my Will getting romantic ideas like his uncle about going for a soldier. I thought if he saw how these men have been injured, he would understand better. We want him to be apprenticed to Jake and learn a good trade.’

I nodded my understanding and thought of the small, fierce grandmother. We women are clear eyed about war while so many men seem blinded by talk of honour and glory. Yet I could hardly say so to Bess without revealing too much. So I said only, ‘It is physicians and surgeons who must try to repair their bodies and give them their lives back. I hope you succeed with Will.’

She smiled at me. ‘We are grateful for what you have done for William, Doctor.’

‘Your visits have done him more good than I. And given him hope for the future. Tomorrow we will let him try out the crutches our carpenter has made.’

William Baker was one of the last of the soldiers to leave. The stump of his severed leg healed cleanly and there was no further sign of gangrene. I was sure that he healed the better for having laid aside his despair. It took him days to learn to manage the crutches, but he was determined, and eventually could hop across the ward unaided. When the time came for him to leave, Jake Winterly came along with his wife to take William home. He had borrowed a cart, for the distance across London was much too far for a one-legged man just learning to walk. Several of us from the hospital came to see them off from the hospital gatehouse, with young Will sitting proudly beside his father at the reins.

‘You will visit us, Doctor, won’t you?’ William leaned down to shake my hand.

‘Aye, I’ll come to see how you are faring.’ I decided that in a week or two I would order a leather belt from the shop, specifying that it must be made by William.

Andrew was also one of the last to leave. Although the wound in his head healed cleanly, and his ear was only slightly scarred, he still suffered persistent pains in the head and had moments of dizziness and disturbed vision. I was worried that there might have been some damage to his skull. I could find no fracture, but there might have been a crack beneath the skin, too fine to be found by probing. I consulted my father and Dr Stephens about it.

‘Aye, there could be some hurt done to the skull, though it clearly has not broken through enough to harm the brain,’ Dr Stephens said, after feeling all around the scar, where the new skin showed pink and fragile.

‘Sometimes a blow like that can lead to bruising of the brain,’ said my father, when he had asked Andrew to describe how his sight was affected – occasionally seeing objects doubled, and what looked like zigzags of lightning across his vision.

‘That can often be a precursor to a severe headache, what we call a migraine,’ my father explained. ‘Do they occur before the onset of your headaches? And do you feel any sickness?’

‘Aye,’ Andrew said slowly. ‘Now you ask, the flashes do come an hour or two before the headaches. And I do feel sick sometimes.’

‘You have vomited at least once,’ I reminded him. I looked at my father. ‘Feverfew?’

‘Aye. See whether Peter can find you some fresh in the stillroom or the herb garden.’

‘There should be some still growing at this time of year,’ I agreed. ‘It is better fresh than the dried.’

I turned back to Andrew. ‘You can eat it like a salad herb. Slightly bitter, but not unpleasant.’

He looked at my father. ‘Will they get better? The headaches, and the other troubles to my sight?’

‘Aye. It may take time, but they will get better, if you give yourself a chance to recover. No returning to army duties yet a while.’

So Andrew stayed on until we were satisfied that the headaches were no longer so severe and he had no further spells of dizziness. He left the same day as William.