The Secret World of Christoval Alvarez by Ann Swinfen

Author:Ann Swinfen
Language: eng
Format: mobi, azw3, epub
Tags: Mystery, Action & Adventure, Crime, Historical, Thriller & Suspense, Thriller, Literature & Fiction
ISBN: 9780992822835
Publisher: Shakenoak Press
Published: 2014-03-28T00:00:00+00:00

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.

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