Marlowe was still sitting upright. ‘What business do you have with me, sir?’ he asked.
‘Her Majesty’s business,’ Walsingham said.
Marlowe looked into the man’s eyes. They burned as dark and enigmatic as his own. ‘You’re the spymaster,’ he said softly.
Walsingham laughed. ‘Ah, you playwrights,’ he roared. ‘Always the dramatic. I’ve been looking for you.’
‘Why?’ Marlowe asked.
‘Let’s just say,’ Walsingham said, leaning forward in the saddle, ‘I believe you are the kind of man who can effect Her Majesty’s business well. Very well.’ The spymaster sat upright again. ‘The pay’s not good, Marlowe,’ he said. ‘But I can guarantee you a life like no other.’
‘I am not exactly a free agent, Sir Francis,’ Marlowe said. ‘I have various charges pending against me.’
‘If you are referring to Edward Winterton and pulling a knife on him, it’s gone. I have had a word with Edward. He understood.’
‘He . . . ?’ Marlowe was amazed.
‘He works for the Queen,’ Walsingham explained. ‘As do we all. As for Dr Gabriel Harvey . . .’
‘Yes?’ Marlowe leaned forward.
Walsingham smiled. ‘Let’s just say, he’d rather like to be Master of Corpus Christi one day. He’s gone too.’
Marlowe chuckled. ‘Once,’ he said, ‘all I wanted was to take my first degree. That achieved, my second. Then -’ he waved to the theatrical pile on which he rode – ‘I had dreams of writing plays and poetry – all fire and air, eh?’
Walsingham steadied the stallion. ‘I see no reason, Master Marlowe, why Her Majesty’s business could not be fitted in around your second degree and your writing for the theatre, if you wish. After all, God gave us twenty four hours in any day.’
They rode on for a moment in silence. ‘Well, Machiavel, Kit?’ Walsingham leaned in again. ‘What do you say?’