‘Release him. He is carrying nothing but a physician’s equipment.’

The man let go of my arms and with shaking hands I buckled the straps again.

‘I have been treating the injured in the town,’ I said. ‘Not that there are many people left. And I was told my help might be needed here. A woman who knows Captain and Señora Pita said I should come.’ It was near enough the truth to carry conviction.

The officer relaxed. He nodded to the soldier to leave. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

They did indeed need medical help and my luck was in. There was no other physician with the garrison. If there had been any physicians resident in the upper town, they must have fled with the other deserters. The officer took me to a run-down cluster of buildings which had served as their old quarters before the new fortress was built. There was a central building, a small, squat keep, surrounded with outbuildings – stables, kitchens, an armoury from which could be heard the ring of mallet on iron. Their injured were laid out in the hall of the keep with no one to tend them but a few women – ladies, rather, officers’ wives, I assumed, who were willing enough but had no idea of how to care for men with bullet wounds. Our English attackers might be lightly armed, but they had certainly been able to inflict injuries. I rolled up my sleeves, called for boiled water and raw wine to clean the wounds, and set about my work.

I had no objection to treating these men, even if they were Spaniards and our enemies. A wounded man is a wounded man whatever his nation, and my calling was to care for the sick and wounded. The injuries I treated here were identical to those I had been treating in the English camp, bullet and crossbow wounds for the most part, and the men were suffering the same pain. Some were delirious with the heat and their wounds. As part of my plan, I had deliberately carried no bandages with me, so once bullets had been extracted and wounds cleaned and salved, I asked the women to find me cloth for bandages. They seem puzzled, looking about them as if they expected to find cloth ready to hand.

‘Do you have seamstresses?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps your sewing women will have something we can use?’

I knew it would be unlikely. But then one of the women spoke – I had learned by now that she was that very Señora Maria Pita of whom the woman with the onions had spoken.

‘There are no seamstresses here,’ she said. Her voice was contemptuous. A fool of a physician could not be expected to know that ladies would not bring their women servants to the citadel. ‘But there are two tailors who were engaged in making new uniforms before the attack came. They may have something you can use.’

‘Could someone perhaps take me to them?’ I asked humbly. ‘Then I can see for myself whether there is anything suitable.’

‘Come with me.’

She strode ahead of me out of the keep, ignoring the sound of cannon and musket fire which had started up more intensively than ever from somewhere behind us and over to the right, where I knew the weakened area of the wall lay. The woman might be arrogant but she was courageous, marching across the open courtyard where occasional arrows and crossbow bolts from the English besiegers were falling. She led me to one of the outbuildings backed into the town wall and flung open the door.

Two men looked up, startled.

‘You see,’ she said, on a note of pride, ‘even under siege we keep up the work of the garrison. These men are busy making new uniforms for the soldiers to replace those damaged in the fighting.’

‘Indeed,’ I said. I turned to the men. Which of them was Titus? If he was here? ‘I am Dr Christoval Alvarez, physician. I am treating the wounded and I need some light-weight cloth to use for bandages. Such as you might use for shirts.’

I did not look round, but I was aware that the woman had left.

‘Luis de Cantor,’ the older man said, standing and offering me his hand. ‘Aye, we have some shirt cloth you can have.’ He walked through into a back room, where I could hear him moving bolts of cloth.

‘And you are?’ I asked the other man.

‘Titus Mendes,’ he said, keeping his face bent over his stitching.

‘Not Titus Allanby?’ I said softly in English.

At that his head snapped up and his mouth fell open.

‘Quickly,’ I said. ‘There isn’t much time. I have come from Walsingham to fetch you out of here. Meet me at dusk in the southeast corner of the citadel. There is a large house there. Three storeys. The only one that large. Wait near there.’

He had just time to nod when Cantor came back with half a bolt of shirt cloth.

‘That is excellent,’ I said. ‘Just what I need.’ I bowed my thanks to him, ignoring Allanby, and returned to my wounded.

I had hoped that the day would proceed as previous days had done, with a relatively ineffective exchange of fire between the garrison and the besiegers. I would then meet Allanby at dusk and proceed to the next part of my plan. Unfortunately, Norreys had other intentions for that day. Unknown to me, he had decided upon an all-out assault on the half-demolished section of the wall, in the hope of breaching it. The English troops would throw everything they had at this least defensible side of the citadel. Everything they had in their armoury consisted of nothing more than muskets, crossbows and fire-arrows, with the two very small cannon unloaded from one of the armed pinnaces and man-handled up the steep hill. These small cannon could do little damage at that distance, but they would give courage to the soldiers, who would need to rush the breach and attempt hand-to-hand fighting. A few of the smaller ships would try to provide some fire-power from the inner end of the harbour, where the larger ships could not go, but their guns would barely reach so far. If they did, they would be in danger of hitting our own men.

It was only the suddenly increasing noise late in the afternoon that alerted me to what was happening. Soon more wounded men were being brought in. One of the ladies, less squeamish than the others, stayed with me, ripping the shirt cloth to make bandages and wrapping the dressed wounds under my direction. Most of the others had retreated to the upper floors of the keep. We could hear their occasional shrieks echoing down the stairs. Señora Maria – to give her her due, she was no coward – had gone out again into the main courtyard, behind the defending troops, where her own husband was among the fighting men and where she could reload muskets for them.

The constant fighting and the roar of cannon and the crack of musket fire deafened us even inside the keep and showed no signs of diminishing. The garrison servants themselves were out there, behind the crumbling rampart, and I saw the tailor Luis run past, a pike in his hand. I saw nothing of Titus, but thought what a fine irony it would be if he and I died here on the Spanish side, at the hands of English soldiers. When there was a brief respite from my work with the wounded I stepped outside the keep and saw that the darkening sky was lit up by flames, where the English troops had shot fire arrows into the timber houses near the wall and set them alight.

At that moment I heard a howl of grief, and saw Señora Maria bending over a man lying on the ground, a pike still clutched in his hand. Around him the Spanish troops wavered. They were no longer firing muskets. Either they had run out of shot or a decision had been made to reserve all the gunpowder for the cannon, the weapons which must, inevitably, tip the balance of the battle in favour of the Spanish.

‘It is her husband, Captain Pita.’ A voice at my elbow. The woman who had been assisting me. ‘They are very devoted. Is he dead?’

From the crossbow bolt lodged in his head there could be no doubt. I nodded. Why must men rip each other apart in war? We bring them into the world and when they grow to manhood, this obscenity is what they wish on each other. What was the point of this battle? We should have been gone from here days ago. The purpose of the expedition had been to place Dom Antonio on the throne through the loyal support of his people. Yes, we would burn Spanish ships on the way, but ships are nothing but wood and iron and canvas. This slaughter was never meant to happen. On the other side of that crumbling, burning rampart our own men were dying, just as men were dying in front of me.